


Dragon Age: Blood & Dust

by JohnCousland



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anorwen, F/F, F/M, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Johnia, Medieval, Naval Battle, Pre-Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnCousland/pseuds/JohnCousland
Summary: John Cousland would become the Warden Commander of Ferelden. Junia Cadash, the Grand Mistress of the Inquisition. In the days where Thedas were at the mercy of Corypheus, their paths crossed, and the consequences of their encounter could be felt years after the Breach had been sealed.Yet, before the Inquisition, before the Blight, in the early Spring of 9:30 Dragon, they met for the first time. And that meeting scarred them for the rest of their lives.This is the prelude of John Cousland and Junia Cadash. A story of pushing forbidden loves, and the iron fist of faith. A tale of History repeating itself.





	1. Sunk and Memories

**Author's Note:**

> My view of the Dragon Age world is that of a **medieval** fantasy world. In the later installments, it proved to be a renaissance fantasy, thus making my take on Thedas a head cannon. The following are the changes to the world state that I use in this story:
> 
>  **The Grey Wardens are NOT an esteemed order:** the Fourth Blight was 400 years ago. While the dwarves of Orzammar and, Cailan specifically, cherish the order, they are very few, with dwindling numbers, and the vast majority of the people do not even know who they are. Put together, the number of Grey Wardens in all of Thedas in 9:29 Dragon would not reach 100.
> 
>  **There is NOT a common language:** 8th Century Brittain had a few languages to count. Anyone with a minimum knowledge of language knows a Common Language is a construct that cannot sustain itself. Thus the “English Language” is actually Fereldan. The Orlesians speak French, the Antivans Spanish, etc, etc.
> 
>  **The Dalish are a myth:** The Dalish elves inhabit the dense, virgin wilderness, protected from the humans by the very magic of the places they wander through. For all elves who live in human cities, the Dalish are but a tale, and it is the same for the humans.  
>  **Magic is rare:** The rate of mages to non-mages in the sentient races is about one to every 10,000. The mages are successfully kept in check in the circles, and apostates are very careful about their magic. You can’t go to the Wonders of Thedas in Denerim and buy one robe and a couple of staves.
> 
>  **Sexuality is not open:** l really don’t have a reason to say the sexuality taboos of Thedas would be like our world’s. But Gwen was inspired by my friend's character in the RP game I am a GM at, and she and I agreed she would prefer her character’s conflicts to be in line with those a lesbian woman would go through in the European middle age. So, in this world, men don’t marry men, women don’t marry women, and any relationship between them is frowned upon, except in few clusters, like the Avvars.
> 
>  **The World is becoming patriarchal:** Despite the Chantry and its Prophetess, women in Thedosian society, Ferelden included, are on the way of being only mothers and priestesses. Warring women are increasingly rare, and men are assuming a more decisive role in society. Women are not free to express their sexuality, and a “decent”, “pure” behavior is expected of them. Again, there is nothing in the lore to back this. This is a source of conflict I wish to explore, in line with the "medieval" view of the world.
> 
>  **The Templars are NOT able warriors:** the knights Templar are an order focused on hunting and guarding mages. Their other duty is guarding chantries. Thus, the Templars are able at wolf-packing individual mages and bringing them down - either for the capture or the kill. Also, since men cannot join any proper rank in the Chantry, second sons and the male faithful join and spoil its ranks because of their status in secular society. Templars are not apt at massive arm battles, shield walls, wedges, etc. The average Templar would be no match in single combat to the average warrior. But they do can hunt (and hurt) mages.
> 
>  **Varric and the likes are NOT published writers** : A publishing industry requires the Printing Press. And this opens a revolution in the world that essentially demedievalizes it. Books are rare, expensive objects, produced by the careful hands of mages, brothers and sisters in secluded scriptoriums. 
> 
> Please, imagine Thedas is like late 12th Century Europe/Middle East: Ferelden is England, the countryside or Orlais is the Aquitaine region in France, The biggest cities or Orlais and the coastal cities of the Free Marches are like Venice. Rivain and Antiva are the Iberic peninsula, the Tevinter Imperium is like magic-infused Bizantine Empire, and Seheron/Par Vollen are like Syria and Egypt. It keeps the mood of all the regions, their technological and linguistics differences, while at the same time keeping the history nerd in me satisfied. And hopefully, you, my reader, too. =)

_Gwenie..._

John’s head spun and his consciousness flickered as he struggled to register what was going on around him. Light was a focused, waving blur, dotted by the underside of a ship’s hull and dozens of bodies – some swimming, a few others floating facing down, and most of them plunging all around him, and _with_ him, to the depths of the Minanther River. John had no air with which to hold to dear life. It had been knocked from him when the mace hit him square in the chest and threw him to the water, chainmail on. His eyes didn’t burn - they were accustomed to salty sea water, and the clear currents of the Minanther were nothing if not sweet. His limbs, though, burned, stung and tingled, and he could not even consider this is _not_ how he wished to die. His thoughts were with his sister. His other half, his twin, back in Denerim.

He smiled when he saw the giant man swimming in his direction: a calm, weak and gentle smile that pursed John’s thick lips in quiet serenity. It was fitting for a corpse to be displayed, tranquil. The water floated his reddish long beard, and caused the moustache not to hide his full mouth. Whoever sunk with him would likely envy that man who died such a peaceful drowning.

The giant man was older than John – old, actually -, and seemed to have other plans than to let John drown. He swam downwards steadily, fiercely, helped by gauntlets and metal plates on his boots. His grizzly gray beard was way longer than John’s, and the thick receding hair, shorter.

_Grandpa..._

 - Grandpa! Help him, grandpa!

John didn’t hear Gwen’s shouts as he plunged down the angry waters of the Waking Sea. The foolish boy tried to hit an evil seagull (a mighty devil, he would correct) with his blunt wooden sword, tripped, fell and, helped by a bump from the boat and the weight of the buckler strapped to his arm, slid through the deck and under the railing, straight into the water. His eyes burned from the salt, and much of the air on his lungs was wasted shouting for help while he slid from the vessel.

The older giant man – not so old back then, with more muscle, more hair, and less gray – was swift to dive after his grandson, with no kind of encumberment. The ship’s hull and the day light were as wavy and blurred as they would be years later in the Minanther - the bodies, though, were seagulls, calmly sitting the surf. Wide, powerful arm strokes brought Fearchar MacEanrig, bann of the Storm Coast, closer to his daughter’s son.

In the Minanther’s waters, John managed to reach for his grandfather’s grasp. And found nothing.

In the Waking Sea’s waves, Fearchar grabbed John’s right forearm with a firm clasp that sent a jolt of pain and relief through the 8-year old boy. With a swift, merman-like movement, the man spun around and in an instant was swimming back to the surface, with a grace that one would hardly attribute to such hunky character. Some sailors were quick at ship’s edge, helping bringing the boy and his grandfather back aboard. Before John could register the firm deck under his feet, he lost his breath again at Gwen’s embrace: desperate for her twin brother, and he could swear, as strong as his grandfather’s would have been.

Gwendolyn, Gwen; or as John usually calls her, Gwenie. His thoughts were on her in the moment he was hit and gasped away all dear breath and fell to plunge in the Minanther river. It was sheer luck that had him be wearing his armor when the attack came – mere laziness, actually, as stripping the gear in tight boat quarters was not ideal. He wanted to wait until all the other passengers had settled themselves and he had more space for himself and his belongings. This also added to the fact that he was carrying the equivalent of one hundred sovereigns with him – golden Starkhaven coins, but nonetheless, the equivalent of a hundred golden Cailans. He wanted as less people as possible listening to the tempting tinkling of the small vault he had with him. And as stated, he was also very worried about his twin sister. Some instants before the blow hit him in the chest, John was bent over the deck’s railing, recovering from the early spring heat that assailed the day, a letter from his brother in hand:

“ _John,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and in one piece. Hopefully this time you will bring back at least as much as you spent to go_ _to_ _this tournament in Starkhaven. Specially, because I believe you will want to come home_ _with_ _all haste._

_Gwen went to Denerim one week after you left for Starkhaven. She went in the company of bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea. As it turns out, and I don’t have many details yet, Alfstanna went to Denerim in person to confront Vaughan Kendells about slanders he was saying about her. Things went bad – Alfstanna killed one of arl Kendells esteemed knights, humiliated the lord in his own hall. As she and Gwen were on_ _their_ _way back from Denerim, men descended upon them, and killed all their entourage. Gwen managed to flee. Alfstanna was raped by over sixty men. They were going to do the same to our sister, but she ran away in time and found help._

_Dad and_ _Grandpa_ _are en route to Denerim. Dad summoned as many of our banns as he could in such short notice, and is marching east with some ten thousand troops. Grandpa went as soon as he heard the news. They sent ships forth as well. Dad says he intends to besiege Denerim and_ _wreak_ _some havoc to punish the Kendells, especially because, if Gwen’s letter is true, the Kendells acted with king Cailan’s blessing._

_Queen Anora is personally seeing to Gwen’s and Alfstanna’s safety. Which is surprising, I would say, if the Kendells acted with permission from the king._

_Anyway, I know you would like to know this as soon as possible, and besides, dad did instruct me to write you. You don’t need to abandon your tournament. But I believe you will do so._

_Don’t worry – Gwen is fine, and will return to Highever with the largest escort in Ferelden’s history._

_With brotherly love,_

_Fergus”_

The promise of a ten-thousand strong entourage was not enough to relieve John of his worries. Gwen was not used to this kind of world. She never had to run from being raped. Her, of all people! The warm breeze of the Minanther in nothing resembled the chill of Highever’s coast’s. But still, he smiled as he reminisced: him and Gwen, around age twelve, at the battlements of Highever castle. Gwen was sitting at the crenel between two merlons, legs and green dress waving at the rocky seashore below. John was terrified of heights, so he was simply standing next to her, both feet on the ground.

 - John, have you kissed a girl yet?

 - Why — me? Of course I have.

 - Liar! - Gwen sniggered as she looked at John from over her shoulder.

Twins, and nothing alike: she had raven dark hair, which was poorly braided, but cascaded down her frame in lazy waves. Her eyes were clearly blue, sparkling blue, and her face long, with thin lips that could maybe be too wide. She was easily a whole foot taller than her twin brother, and all people described her as stunning. Even prettier than their mother Eleanor had been. John, on the other hand, had been born ginger, but his hair was loosing its luster and, at age twelve, showed the first signs of fading to brown. He insisted in allowing what little fluff he had over this thick, full lips to remain there, and his eyes were somewhere in between blue, gray and green. Not as shiny as Gwen’s, and not as expressive. Hers were wide eyes, his narrower, eyelids pressed together by round cheeks on a roundish face.

 - I did! I swear I did!

 - Oh, did you? I doubt it.

 - It was once – recently, actually. Fergus… he kind of set things up. He said it was getting too late for me to “roam the fair sex youth of Highever, as him before me”.

John frowned during Fergus’ impression, clearly bothered by the pressure put on him to follow on the ladies’ man steps of their elder brother. Gwen, on the other hand, dismissed Fergus intervention with a shrug. That was not what she was concerned about.

 - Oh, really?! And who did you kiss?

 - Cousin Asbeigh. You know, not too long ago. Before they left.

 - And how did it feel? - Gwen did not allow any moment to go between an answer and a new probe.

 - What do you mean?

 - Kissing her. How did it feel?

 - Oh. Alright, I guess.

 - Alright?

 - Yeah, good.

 - Give me more. Give me descriptions!

 - What do you want?

 - Poetry, Johnny. Passion! Tell me how kissing a girl feels like!

 - Kissing a girl?

Gwen paused. A frozen smile tried to remain on her wide lips covering the bits and pieces of guile showing through her questions.

 - …Asbeigh. Kissing her, how it felt. Not girls in general. Why would I want to know how it feels to kiss girls in general?

 - I wouldn’t know girls in general, I only kissed her.

He put the letter down, and looked up at the moonless, murky night sky. There wasn’t much to be seen, and nothing to allow things around to be seen. Not a good night for sailing, he learned at a young age, unless you are a smuggler or a pirate. But John could not wait. Fergus’ letter left little room for worrying, but – call it a twin thing – he was worried, and bothered, and anxious. And distracted with one of the few things he could indeed see: the foamy splash of the ships hull in river’s waters. It wasn’t surf foam, not really. It was muggy, silvery bubbles, like bad ale. Like all ale, really. He really hated ale.

 - You kissed her only? – John exclaimed, a curious, lively smile on a man’s full lips, surrounded by a much better attempt at a ginger beard.

He and his sister were at Haelia’s Hounds, an upscale tavern where the Cousland twins were starting to become regulars. John was honestly trying to work his way around the bitter taste of ale. The frown on his face showed how much he was failing. He rested the pint on the table, and looked at the gorgeous woman his fifteen-year old sister and best friend had become.

 - For this last year, yes! And why are you surprised? You know how much I love Lucille. Fergus is the womanizer in the family, not me. And you know… It is _not_ just kissing, Johnny. – Gwen reached for her brother’s pint, and took a full, long, throat wobbling gulp. She hid her distaste of ale better than her brother.

 - I beg you to reconsider, Gwennie. I wish I was as able as _you_ around women. And that is me choosing being like you over being like Fergus.

Gwen slammed the pint down on the table and left out a failed attempt at a roaring burp. She laughed for a while with John, and produced a roll of parchment she unfolded and handed to her brother.

 - New song. Inspired by my Lucille. Do you think you can play it?

John took the parchment over, and ran his eyes quickly over the words and notes. It was a nice ballad indeed! Catchy, lovely, one of those that would have the townsfolk singing and humming in no time. Words that spoke of forbidden love between… Well, the word “man” did not figure in the lyrics.

This was yet another of John and Gwen’s partnerships: he played the lute, while she sang with voice and beauty to entice the crowd. Every time they did so, it wasn’t too long until Highever fawned over Gwen’s beauty and talents. John too took some of the praise. But Highever _loved_ Gwen, especially after her performances with her twin brother. One other woman also basked in public praise, even if posthumously: their mother Eleanor. She had not survived the twins’ birth. Bryce Cousland married again some years later, a woman Fergus’ age: Brea Howe. Brea had never managed to win the hearts of Highever’s folks as the previous Teyrna had. Eleanor was the sole daughter of the beloved bann Fearchar MacEanrig of the Storm Coast; a shield maiden and sailor who had fought side by side with Bryce against the Orlesians in land and sea; the mother of three healthy and talented children. Brea was often known as “Bryce’s youngest”, specially after Gwen (and John) would raise Eleanor’s memory back into people’s minds. That is why John remarked:

 - Are you sure you want me to play this? We’ll get a good Brea-storm if we do, you know that right?

 - Fuck Brea. I want Lucille to hear this.

 - Shit, Gwenie. You know dad thinks _I_ am the one in love with the washer girl, right?

 - You wish, oh my brother. Lucille is fond of finer pleasures. – Gwen said in a husky, teasing tone.

 - By the way – Gwen added after a pause – It is about time you find someone like her for you.

But it never happened. John had his shares of women he fell in love with. But it never worked out. It never produced _love_. And as a man of song and fierce imagination – as well as a caring, _spoiling_ family – John wanted nothing short of true love. His eagerness to find it sent away most of the women he involved himself with. He adamantly refused marriage matches, and his refusals, as well as Gwen’s, were easily accepted. The heir of Highever fit the role well enough, so with Fergus a healthy, handsome man, married and with a son, John and Gwen were left to the devices of their own hearts. And John did follow his.

Gwen, on the other hand, was never the same after Lucille’s death. The washer girl had been forced on a marriage, and the older Couslands did nothing to prevent it. She killed herself two years later. John and Gwen pretty much believed, with nothing concrete to confirm their suspicions, that marrying out of nobility is the one liberty Bryce would not allow them. Lucille’s death marked a time in which, even though Gwen and John would remain really close to each other, their paths started to drift apart. Gwen started travelling to Val Royeaux every summer, her songs and performances rarified. John became a regular in Ferelden’s tournaments, and soon Thedas’. While he would not win most of them, he would do well enough to earn a name for himself as a prestigious knight.

In the three years that preceded John’s descent into the Minanther’s waters, he and Gwen would have one time in the year in which they would rekindle all their bonds and childishness plays: Bloomingtide. In the early days of the month, as soon as the first buds of the maple and birch trees tried the crisp, foggy air, he and Gwen would meet at their grandfather castle in the Storm Coast. There they would go out to sail, fish, hunt and play and sing. Fearchar was a kin soul to the twins, and spending time with them brought him closer to his dear, deceased daughter. They would welcome summer together, before Gwen went on a ship to Val Roeyaux and John followed to wherever the next competition would lead him.

Bloomingtides in the Storm Coast was a tradition that started as soon as John became his grandfather’s squire, and Gwen wanted to be one too. When Gwen was told girls could not be squires, Fearchar was adamant: “Why not?” He was a man after the old Alamarri ways, and always insisted Ferelden would no longer be Ferelden once the Alamarri ways were forgotten. It happened to Orlais when they abandoned the old Ciriane customs.

It was as Fearchar’s squire that Gwen learned how to handle the compound bow, and John learned how to fight. It was how they learned to be sailors and not drown in the raging waters of the Storm Coast. Like that day in which Fearchar had rescued John.

 - You always know where your buckles are, Johnny! Always! Did you learn nothing with grandpa? – Gwen bellowed in relieved anger, now stomping her brother’s shoulders with the side of her hand.

 - She is right, Johnny. – A wet, calmer Fearchar added, his voice a thundering whisper in his massive chest. – Take a look at my armor.

The three of them moved to Feachar’s chainmail, not far from there, slumped by a barrel on the ship’s deck. Fearcher twisted the chainmail inside out, and showed a thin, large buckle around where the small of the back would be.

 - This is why I fight in armor even on a ship. If you fall in the water, Johnny, know your buckles! And one day, when you wear armor like me, this buckle will save your life. You open it, and the chainmail will go loose like a shirt. Let it sink to the bottom. Not you.

And now, after a treacherous blow to the chest that sent him reeling off the ship, his armor hugged him on the way down the Minanther’s murky waters. He could still see the ship’s hull away from him, carried by the current, faster than the lump of metal about to meet the river’s muddy bottom. The ship seemed to be ablaze – pirates, no doubt. Who would be one hundred golden Cailans richer. John blinked. His sight started to fade.

_Grandpa is not here._

_Gwenie._

John shuddered as if life had bolted back into his body. He cried what little air he had left in his lungs, and moved around. _Know your buckles_. In a swift movement his gloves were gone. Next, the belt with scabbard and sword. And in the next instant, he twisted around and reached for the master buckle that kept the armor fit to his body. When that one was open, the whole armor set loosened up, and he let it slide like a shirt to disturb the mud he was almost at.

Unencumbered by all that metal, and left with just enough on his plated boots that he could swim against, and not as graciously as when Fearchar rescued him, John Cousland swam back to the surface, with successive, coughed, loud gasps that spasmed out of his chest as he finally had air filling his lungs again.

But the night was dark. In the distance, the ship he had been in blazed and shone like a beacon John could not return to. The Minanther river current carried him somewhere. Alone. With no clothes, and no knowledge of any of the northern languages. With no golden Cailans.

But he knew how to swim. He knew Gwen needed help.

 

 _Maker preserve me_.

 

 


	2. In the Presence of My Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junia wants the privacy of an empty chantry at night time. Still, some thugs decide to rest in that same haven. And they carry a prize she wants.

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._   
_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_   
_She should see fire and go towards Light._   
_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,_   
_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_   
_Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

 

\- This is a very generous tithe, dwarf. I am sure the Maker will be pleased with your prayers. Even from one such as you. Well… Do not mind me.

The mother turned to go away, clasping a couple of silver coins in her old, bloated hand. Junia noted as she rubbed the coins together, but shrugged and moved to one of the frontal pews.

This small chantry was the same as all the other ones she used to go to at this time of the night: small, humble, and with mothers who would welcome the offering of “even one such as her”. An offering that would buy the privacy of an empty nave, without humans to look down, more figuratively than literally, on her. She moved to the first row of pews and knelt in front of one, knees on the ground, elbows resting on the old wood. If she placed her knees in the kneelers, she would kiss the support for the humans’ elbows. Thus, she knelt on the cold, paved floor.

Every time she did that, a small smirk would twitch her thick, full lips. She would kneel on the very thing the dwarves somehow worshipped. Junia never believed in the Ancestors and the Stone. Even though her wealthy surface family did and had branded her as a mark of rich casteless skyheaded pride, she despised the floor that despised all air-touched dwarfs. And while that chantry’s Mother also despised Junia, she knew in her heart Andraste did not. Andraste guided her hand, her steps, her destiny. It was etched in her story, in her smile, in her hardened knees.

\- Actually, might I ask your name, generous giver?

Two whole silvers would often make any human very forthcoming to the oddity of an Andrastian dwarf.

Junia opened her wide brown eyes and glanced at the mother standing under the threshold of a door which led away from the altar. The dwarf’s eyes were way too large for her face, one would say. Just like her thick, wide and very pink lips. Her gaze and mouth showed she could not bear to be angry at mothers and sisters. She loved all of them, and she spoke with joy in her low pitched voice:

\- Junia. Please, remember it for your prayers.

\- Of course, Junia.

A good thing of this part of the Free Marches is that folks got the J in her name right: dwarven-like. Junia, not _Dj_ unia.

The mother walked away, and left the dwarf alone with her thoughts. It was a good habit. End the day with an offer and prayers, cleansed from sin. Dwarves cannot dream, so if she was killed in her sleep, she would go straight to Andraste’s side. Upside of sleeping like a rock. All she needed to do was empty her heart before the Maker’s throne, so her head would be light on the pillow. Ready for a new day and night of sinning in the careful trade of lyrium smuggling. Yet another smile to her full lips. Years in that service, and she still had all her fingers, all her teeth, and a face unscathed by the blows she would often trade. Well, there _was_ a broken nose. But no scars over her light freckles. Most of the other dwarves in the Carta could not count on the same blessing: a body closed by the Maker. Nor on all their teeth and ten fingers.

_“For the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”_

Small chantries like this were the best ones. To be honest, all Junia knew is that she was in a village a few days away from Starkhaven. Speaking the local language, she had been tasked with collecting some payments from valued and happy customers in a Templar monastery in those parts. Her mates were certainly awake in the camp nearby, eyeing each other to make sure no one would escape with the revenue which would make Behrat, back in Orzammar, even richer. She, on the other hand, had the privacy of a nighttime chantry to herself, free from accusing human eyes who did not want to hear the Chant of Light gladly sung by a dwarven heart.

This is why she was very surprised when a bunch of humans suddenly burst into the Chantry, laughing and talking loudly. Nothing new for the Free Marches, but this lot was loud even for Marchers, and it was very late. They didn’t notice her knelt in front of the first pew – the last one from their perspective – but she did notice the careful, slow locking of the door the mother had gone through. About five men, bloody daggers in hand and beaming smiles on their voices and faces.

The men hurled a sixth one, tied and gagged – very well tied, actually: hands and legs with multiple rope windings, inside the chantry and closed the door. They were geared up and carried a very distinct small chest Junia knew well: Behrat’s payment. She widened her eyes in disbelief that the Marcher dusters got the jump from the humans. Likely dead, the lot of them. But she did look back thankfully at Andraste’s statue. A body closed by the Maker. At least the dead Carta dwarves were not her friends, only mere acquaintances she had recently made. It was weird, though, that these men would have killed hers, but not the one they brought with them. A scruffy human, shirtless, with a round belly and broad shoulders, long brown thinning hair, and a long, thick ginger beard. He must have been with them for a while, since he was not putting much of a fight. His blue-greenish eyes darted everywhere, never resting in the same place for too long. Junia dodged those eyes with a quick duck, and moved along the pew to a position not even he would be able to see her.

She knew she was locked where she was, and couldn’t get out without making herself noted. The mark on her cheek would certainly mean a knife to her stomach – the Maker makes do with no fools. He certainly wouldn’t make do with _those_ fools, who were setting themselves up for the night. They tied their prisoner to one of the wooden columns, barred the double doors they had come through, and sat in a circle to eat some morsels of salted beef and drink. They did not look around the chantry’s nave to find Junia in her very uncomfortable yet safe spot behind the pews. Which meant she would need to wait until they were gone, and then move away.

Which was not her plan. That was Behrat’s money, and those men resting in the chantry were laid in her path by the Maker, so she could earn Behrat’s favor. She alone would return with the money, where all others had failed. That actually made it pleasing, the wait until they were all but one asleep. She enjoyed the anticipation of having the jump on those who had jumped the dusters. Besides, these men would not be left with nothing. They still had their prisoner, which, according to what she overheard, was a nobleman who had escaped a raid in the Minanther. These folks were just waiting on the shore for those like him.

After a while, the sentinel was pretty much asleep as well, dozing on and off, his head hanging over his chest as he sat against one of the other columns. He did try to make some small talk with the prisoner, but he did not speak their language, so he gagged him again and gave up. The guard had drunk a lot, and all know a drunkard keeps a cock awake every time. The snoring, even from the sentinel trying to keep himself awake, was enough to mask the noises of Junia coming from behind the pews.

She did not expect the prisoner to be awake, looking straight at her in complete silence. He was staring. His eyes caught her short, bulky figure, with broad shoulders, back, legs and arms. She was dressed in brown leather pants and boots, with a darker jerkin over a while linen shirt. A burgundy tissue was tied around her neck, resting in between her large breasts, which were tightly compressed by the jerkin. On each side of her belt, two daggers were drawn slowly at the same time as Junia locked her large dark brown eyes with the prisoner’s small blue ones. He nodded slowly showing he had no intention of alerting them of her presence. She nodded in return, and said nothing about not intending to release him.

She shook the broad waves of her chestnut hair off her face with a small movement, and the slaughter began. They were all dead in under a minute, not even having the chance to open their eyes from their slumber. A good death to go straight to Heaven, had they made their peace with the Maker before sleeping, and had they had no sinful dreams.

Other than the sound of parting flesh, all was silent, including the prisoner’s smile. Junia’s daggers were sharp, swift and precise. When she was done, no blood had stained her skin, but guilt, specially guilt over murdering sleeping men in a chantry, had splattered all over her. As soon as she was over she immediately stood and strode with large steps back before the altar, cleaning the blood off her weapons and sheathing them. She fell on her knees.

She closed her eyes shut and gathered her hands before her face in prayer that was supposed to be fervent – the Maker had brought them before her, the Maker sanded their eyes and numbed their senses, it was His will that they died in that holy place. Yet she felt petty and vile, small and terrified of His acceptance. She could hear Sister Lucia’s words condemning that victory, judging the prize the Maker had laid before her, and affirming He did _not_ operate in such fashion. She desperately needed to cleanse herself of those deaths and Sister Lucia’s words, but she couldn’t. Not with those _eyes_ on her back.

Even without turning to face him, she knew the prisoner was baffled by the sight of the killer dwarf knelt in prayer before the fading embers of Andraste’s pires. She could _feel_ the weight of those widened small eyes, the superiority he – tied and gagged – would be feeling towards her, her better, thinking she would never be worthy of Andraste’s song.

One more death would not be too much to be forgiven for.

She stood and turned in a single movement, and rushed to the prisoner in the same broad strides which had brought her to the altar. She drew one of her daggers, and his eyes grew wide with fear. He shook his head fiercely and backed against the column he was tied to, the pleads for his life stumbling on the gag. She pulled him closer by the ropes around his chest, and brought his face to an inch from hers.

\- Why don’t _you_ ask the Maker if he hears my prayers, you sodder? – she asked in the language of Starkhaven, pressing the sharp steel against his throat.

\- Fe’e’an. Fe’el’an, ea’e… - He pleaded, trying in vain to back his neck away from the blade.

Junia yanked and tore the cloth gag from the prisoner’s mouth, not even noticing how promptly she repeated the question in her native Fereldan.

\- I… I don’t know what you are talking about! Please, please, miss dwarf, please, release me! My family will be very generous, I…

\- Fuck off!

Junia’s anger had taken the best of her, and she knew she was in the brink of tears. She could not shed tears for that, because of _him_ , because now Sister Lucia would tell her how Andraste’s love was sung even for one such as her. But she shed some anyway, and slapped the prisoner’s face hard with the back of her hand. She pressed the blade once more against his throat, and her face close to his again, speaking through a bittersweet smirk.

\- You must have found me very amusing, eh, human? Praying to your human god? It’s funny, I know. I’ll have to prove to you that He hears me. You _will_ ask Him!

\- I… no, please! I actually found it beautiful! – She smacked his face again.

\- You mock me!

\- I don’t, I swear I don’t! Please, miss, let me explain!

It could not be. He simply wanted to escape, and the Maker makes do with no fools, but Junia was telling herself she was being fooled as she reveled in the soothing sensation those words brought her. That a human would think like Sister Lucia; the gall! But she did enjoy the possibility, as much as that would make her look like a loser afterwards: when she had released him, and he thought to himself: “An Andrastian dwarf!”

She simply let the rage wash off of her features slowly, and her large eyes and large lips slowly relaxed themselves back into a neutral, disbelieving expression. If the human were not in such distress, he might even have noticed some yearning in her countenance when she said: “speak”. And speak he did:

\- I… Please, I am sorry if this offends you but… The Chant of Light is for everyone. It should be for everyone. If Shartan rode by Andraste’s side, how long until a dwarf joined her? I mean… There was no time. She marched on the surface and…

Junia seemed content in letting him speak. She sat on the floor in front of him, and rested her back against a leg of the last pew. She did not urge him to go on. But he certainly noted she was being receptive, which allowed him to organize his thoughts.

\- A dwarf praising the Maker was a beautiful sight. It would have been elevating were I not bound. The Chant is for all, miss. That other humans would diminish you for praising the one true God does the Chantry no service. It would actually anger even Andraste, I would say.

It was a calm, delighted smile that greeted the prisoner on Junia’s lips. That, and contained, unshed tears of joy. A joy such as she only felt when she was a child in that cloister in Kirkwall.

\- You really think that? – She asked in a blissful, light tone.

\- I do. I really do, miss.

\- And what is your name, Ser?

\- John, miss. Of the Couslands of Highever, in Ferelden. I am a son of teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever. – Of course, despite the theological debate they were having, he made sure she knew how fat of a ransom he was worth – And you?

\- Junia. Of the casteless Cadashes of nowhere, daughter of nobody other than the Maker – she said with a soft laugh. John soon followed in laughter.

\- I will tell you what, John Cousland. – She stood, and moved to cut John’s ropes loose. – I will let you go. You soothed my heart, you quenched a lot of my anguish right now. I wish you no harm, friend.

John breathed a sigh of extreme relief and relaxation as each winding around his body loosened its grip. Junia worked in silence, with a kind smile and no hurry as she helped the nobleman out of his bindings. She herself was free from the binding of guilt and shame, silently telling Sister Lucia that yes, the Maker is a terrific God. He not only had put before her the path to Behrat’s knowledge; he had also prepared a message for her: she acted according to His will. He is with her. He blesses and keeps her, and He is her beacon and her sword. She couldn’t even remember fearing that John would say those things only to keep her from killing him.

And John could not have expected such an improbable turn of events. Junia was not the only one thinking the Maker was with them. Who would have guessed that an _Andrastian dwarf_ would be the one to release him from his captors? And a _beautiful_ one at that. John looked at Junia as she unwound the rope from around his body, as his muscles unwound from around his bones. That crooked nose was… cute! And her eyes and lips… He actually felt like kissing them, eyes included. The chestnut, shoulder-length wavy hair was his favorite type. Now, Gwenie would say she never quite grasped John’s attraction for dwarven women, but he was sure she would think Junia was John’s type. Fergus would say John didn’t like _ugly_ women. The word he used was “unorthodox”, a way the Maker found to make less interesting women happy. Gwenie would disagree and say she understood John’s thinking. He liked women, not dolls. Dolls were a thing for girls, and thus she liked playing with them.

That was the first time in a week, ever since falling into the Minanther’s waters, that John had thoughts related to anything other than survival. But thinking them, thinking of Gwen, snapped John out of the pleasure of being that close to Junia, and brought his mind back to more urgent matters.

\- Junia – she smiled when he pronounced it correctly on the first try. He smiled because he loved the way it sounded. The way the odd J felt on his lips. – I am _really_ thankful for your help. But as you can see, I am alone, penniless, naked, lost, and I can’t speak the Marchers’ language. I can reward you dearly, though, when I get home. Would you help me return to Highever?

The thought had crossed Junia’s mind. Receiving John’s ransom – or reward, given the circumstances – would be a good bump to her own gold. Gold she had no reason at all to share with Beraht. John did seem a capable warrior, able to carry his own weight if he had the proper equipment. By travelling with him instead of other dusters, she would have the peace of mind of not having to worry about her own throat, despite having her body closed by the Maker. A brief detour through Highever on the way to Orzammar wouldn’t be too bad. Not at all. Plus, she would avoid Waking Sea.

\- Very well, ser John. You got yourself a deal. Let’s see what these sodders left us. Maybe there is something we can use.

John didn’t realize he let Junia walk a few steps ahead of him as he looked upon her. He quickly caught up with the dwarf and helped her rummage through what the dead Marchers had left behind.  Neither did Junia notice how kindly John’s eyes fell upon her.


	3. Maker-Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junia and John start to know each other, and realize that their encounter seemed to be more than mere chance.

 

“You look impressive, ser Cousland!”

Junia chuckled as she looked at John coming out from behind some bushes. He looked positively more composed than the night before, when he was barely more than a ragdoll enveloped in rope. The spoils from the bandits in the chantry had allowed Junia - with a healthy dose of bartering in the local language - to buy most of the things John needed. While they did not compare to the equipment that now gathered moss deep beneath the Minanther river, it was enough for his survival: a sword complete with belt and scabbard, a round wooden shield with a steel boss in the centre, and a slightly rusty oversized chainmail. She even managed to include a dark brown travel cloak in the bargain! His pants and boots were the same ones that came out of the water with him.

And just like his situation, the bond between them had improved significantly overnight. Junia’s chuckles were growing into full hearted laughter as John moved in circles around himself letting his cloak flow free. “You still have to buy me some hands, Junia”, he shouted, letting the hems of his chainmail jiggle from the edge his hands, completely covering them. “This will be the new fashion in the Orlesian tournaments. Sleeves too long over hands with no gloves. You have never seen knight more comely, m’lady!” Junia only kept laughing, openly, her low pitched tone enchanting John with each giggle.

They walked the idle pace of heavily loaded donkeys. Junia’s plan had already been to follow to Kirkwall this morning with her band of dusters by accompanying a merchant caravan that travels regularly from Starkhaven to Kirkwall. While her company had changed, it was still the safer way to traverse the Free Marches countryside, without drawing any attention. Numerous mercenary bands guarded the travelers, and they enjoyed the protection of even warring lords. One of the very reasons commerce flourished so strongly in the Free Marches. No one messed with the caravans.

It didn’t take them the morning to bond, and by noon time John did not feel like a hostage, neither did Junia felt compelled to keep an eye on her expensive prize. Their throats actually ached from all the talking, and they had already refilled their water skins twice. By dinner time the caravan had stopped in the grounds of an enormous monastery, protected by bailey walls and the growing towers of a Cathedral. The magnificent building was almost ready, and those were the last of over sixty years of construction. But instead of finding rest in the grandeur of the cathedral’s halls, even though John’s theological views had enchanted Junia most of the morning, he asked them to eat at the fully enclosed monastery's hall.

“You can’t be serious, John. Bugs, really?”

“I hate them all, I’m telling you! If we eat outside, we’ll attract bees, and they will stick to our food, and they will sting us! And those other weird bugs. And don’t even get me started on the wasps they have up here in the north.”

Junia could not believe that was the reason they were not in a calmer or sainter place, but enjoying the not so private end of a crowded trestle table. The Fereldan language was what shielded them from most of the prying ears. “So, you regularly clad yourself in armor and risk your life in battles, but you are afraid of bees?”

“And wasps. And big beetles. And spiders. But not ladybirds and butterflies, though.” He made a pause to bring food to his mouth, but decided to continue in the face of Junia’s raised brow. “I mean, it’s not fear _per se_. It’s more a… safety notion that, should the veil fail, these critters will eat me. Have you ever seen a giant horse? No. And if there were? We would ride them, and love them. But giant spiders? Maker, I’d take on dragonlings every time!”

Junia simply raised an amused eyebrow: “So you wouldn’t fear a giant butterfly?”

“But of course not!” John laughed heartily and, even among marchers, he was gesturing wider and talking louder than anyone else on the table. “Which demon who respects itself would possess a butterfly? Behold, I’m the demon-flying-flowers!” They both kept laughing before John added: “But that applies only to butterflies, though. Moths are evil creatures who will blind you.”

The situation in Ferelden had been put to a comfortable bed on the back on John’s mind. Eventually he would worry about the time they were taking on their journey, he would think about the issues his sister would be facing back in Denerim, or Highever, or wherever. Wherever, he thought. The place where it always wheres. Like in Highever it always highs. This is how the easy state of mind of a high nobility second son would bring him out of worrying and back into enjoying the company of this _beautiful_ woman - yes, beautiful, he would say to Fergus in his own mind.

At least Gwen wouldn’t judge him. She somehow corroborated him on these matters. She was able to feel the inner workings of John’s likings and never judge them, despite not quite agreeing with them. She knew how much he enjoyed the color match of chestnut hair and eyes, how he anticipated Junia’s large breasts to sag to the top of her belly when free of clothing; how he could not avert his gaze from lips and eyes that were too large to the dwarf’s roundish face, and therefore perfectly _cute_. How soft and firm she should feel to hold; short and broad, more than he could grasp; which marks her belly and hips would show; which would be the smell in her bushes after stripping to sleep at night. He could not wait to tell all about Junia to Gwen, and that is how his hyperactive mind would snap him back to his sister’s woes. And back again at how much he wanted her to meet this special pretty andrastian dwarf. Yes, Gwennie, pretty dwarf, and pretty andrastian. And pretty. And he needed more things to tell his twin sister: not only of Junia, but _about_ Junia.

“But enough bugs, because I don’t want you to think you will have to save me when those weird flying ants they have in here come barging. I talked, and talked, and talked since last night, but all I know about you so far is that you are a mercenary, and that you come from Waking Sea, and that the Maker protects you from pretty much everything. Come on, Junia, I have only until Highever to get to know you, and I don’t think this will be time enough for me!”

Junia could not think these were empty flirting lines from a bored knight. First of all, because she had read all the classical authors - and that is not how knights would go about courting a lady. Not that she was a lady, of course. But that is not how men of war would go about wooing cheap women into their beds either. John’s sincerity was new and assailing, and Junia could not realize how vulnerable she was to it. John had been shielded enough from life to be able to ride under all of the dwarf’s shields, and straight into childish giggles and serene smiles. There were no defenses she could raise to a man who employed no attack. Which is a lie. He already longed for her. But his wanting seeped, rather than being directed. And it immersed them both.

“Alright, John”, she said, letting out a long sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

She smiled a kind smile, and realized she never really talked about her life to anyone. Not in a organized chronology, not like she wished she could, not like she one day hoped chroniclers would want. She would sit and laugh with companions, share drinks and stories with friends. But this was not about the laughter it would bring to a booze-bright table of bandits. This about making herself known to this weird man. The ultimate goal was not to amuse, to scare, to make a point. The ultimate goal was herself. And she delighted on it.

“Well, very well. I guess we can start in Waking Sea. That is where I’m from.”

“I know, and that is so close to Highever!”

“I know, I know. But I didn’t stay there for long. You see, I was born to a very wealthy family. They were heavy supporters of the Surface Caste. They even kept the casteless brand”, Junia touched the mark on her right cheek briefly, “as a mark of surfacer pride. And this is pretty much it for my childhood. I know I had to wear dresses, and learn manners, and sew and do my hair, and all this shit rich girls are supposed to do. This goes on until I am about eight, or nine, or something around that time. That is when they tried to give the jester a shitting pot.”

This time Junia was not interrupted. John watched, listened and chewed attentively, his eyes widened and focused on hers. Eventually darting down to her moving full lips, that is true, but mostly they were on her eyes. “I don’t know the details. But my family did not belong to the Merchant Guild, and they crossed the Merchant Guild. The Guild killed my parents, and looted the house. I was part of the loot.”

John’s expression fell to absolute sorrow, but found no resonance in Junia’s. He noted how used to death she was - and how that diminished him. Embarrassed him of himself, even. This woman mentioned her parents death as if it was nothing, as if it had no sting on her. And Junia could not even notice how heartfelt John was with her family’s murder. It would only sting one not used to murdering. John remembered how easily she dispatched the sleeping men who held him captive. And it made more sense now. For a moment, their situation and how they came to be there briefly flashed in his mind. But just like he was baffled at the ruthlessness of the dwarf, she was entranced by the innocence with which John carried himself to that moment. So she just continued, and John, silent, soaked it all in.

“They were really good to me, actually. You see, better not to damage the merchandise. They shipped me across the sea to Kirkwall. I had not idea what was going on, but here’s the Maker guarding me again: they happened to sell me to the one brothel owner who would not employ children, John. I remember chatting with _signora_ Benedetta later on, and she told me she would never employ anyone young enough to die and go straight to the Maker’s side. A pious woman, she was. And she was thinking that of a _dwarf_. Instead, she sent me to a convent. She payed to have me, and released me for free.”

Junia almost continued saying how she spends a lot of money in Benedetta’s brothel every time she is in Kirkwall. But for the first time in a very long time, she felt ashamed. She hesitated and made a pause, reeling from that awful sensation of shame before that man, probably a few years younger than her, who would not think so well of her if he knew she visited brothels. It wasn’t enough that she hid from him she was a bandit, rather saying she was a mercenary. Now, she was also hiding she was a regular at brothels, and she was hiding Benedetta’s brothel, of all of them. This is not how she would want to him to know her, Junia realized. She knew the Maker was with her, and that He had given her that. She earned every woman she spent her money on. Sister Lucia, who would very often disagree with her on most things, was very adamant in affirming the Maker did not judge love, given for free or purchased with coin and taken with kindness. This was one of the very few things Junia did not use to ask forgiveness for. But now, and suddenly, she wanted John’s good opinion too. She was sure he would never understand a woman who visits brothels, let alone keeps the company of other women. Thus her nights with Benedetta’s women never left the lips that pleased the human so much. She continued to the very Sister Lucia who would scold her for hiding it.

“I went to a convent, a big one, not unlike this monastery where we are.” A peaceful smile seeped through Junia’s face, and sweet nostalgia toned her voice. “I believe I was a decade old by the time I arrived there. They had me doing base chores - stuff not even the sisters following stricter versions of the Rule would do. The mothers and sisters there wasted no time letting me know I was a dwarf, and therefore I would not be educated like the other orphans. There were some in the cloisters. They would grow to be sisters and brothers. The ones with wealthy patrons would either become Mothers or Templars. But me? I was to be their servant, and that is it. I was so… numbed, around that time, John, that I can barely remember a thing. I didn’t even speak the language of Kirkwall. Or _Chiesaforte_ , in their language. All I know if is that I _hated_ being poor and destitute. With passion.”

“Hearing you say it, it seems to me you speak it as well as a native, Junia,” John remarked, not used to hearing about poverty, and not knowing how to deal with it. He felt is was wrong, but could not think of what to say, therefore the remark about language. As if it was the first time he, a high noble, was made aware of the existence of poverty and tragedy. Junia simply shrugged, still immersed in the sweet memories she was about to tell. She was not ashamed of these ones. Well, not completely.

“There was this one sister. _Suora Lucia_. Sister Lucia. Her name means light, and that is exactly what she was to me. It took me a while until I could understand her. But she had some… privileges, as always. Wealthy patrons. Well, in her case, more than that. Anyway, you will see the Maker reaching out to protect me again, John. The good shepherd knows its sheep, and calls them by name. Sister Lucia made sure I would serve only her. She was the head of the _scriptorium_ , where the sisters copy manuscripts. So I would make sure the supplies were tidy, the room was clean, and the sisters writing had what they needed. I also helped her keep track of sisters who were slacking in their copying!” Junia giggled through her pause, and noticed how firm was her grisp in John’s attention. He was done eating his bread, and his wine sat still, cup half full.

“Sister Lucia ensured my service was light enough. And she would take some hours of her time, every night, in between the end of her chores and the nightly prayers, to teach me the language. It was when I was already speaking some of it that she told me she wanted to make sure I learned the Chant. That she wanted me to know that the Maker was the creator of _everyone_. Everyone, John. Even me. Andraste cared even for one as myself.”

Junia made no pause, but John could see how elated she was to speak those words. She savoured them, sound by sound. Drops of balm onto her soul. He already loved this Sister Lucia, and was actually hoping they could see her when they went through Kirkwall. That somewhere down her story, Junia would say that Sister Lucia spoke Fereldan. Regardless, he was charmed by the delight in the dwarf’s soul, translating clearly through the features he already loved to admire. He nodded rhythmically, at the slow beat of Junia’s speech, absolutely sure that Andraste herself validated every word. A sensation Junia shared.

“I also did not take long to meet Sister Lucia’s wealthy patron. A noblewoman named Mara. Even though, in theory, Sister Lucia lived in the cloister, _signora_ Mara would visit her at least twice a week. They were both somehow old at that time. I think they were forty-five, maybe fifty? I digress. One of my main chores, and that only because I was not considered ‘cloistered’, was to travel Kirkwall back and forth with notes from Lady Mara to Sister Lucia, from Sister Lucia to Lady Mara. And Lady Mara loved me! She cherished to see me being raised into a good Andrastian, and after a while she started helping Sister Lucia with my lessons. I loved those days so much, John. So much.”

Again, she did not tell it all. She didn’t need to. She told the important part about Sister Lucia and Lady Mara, and how kindly they kindled all good that Junia ever learned how to feel. She did not disclose the whole truth about them, but enough to share with the man she was growing ever close to. She was ready to move on to darker stances of her past, when John interrupted her.

“How nice, they were lovers!”

And he hadn’t only interrupted - he did it with a clear affirmation of love between two women, a full smile under his beard, and admiration in his eyes. Junia coughed the last sip of her wine, and stared at the human widely. “N-No…” She knew that nobles would more often than not allow themselves some… experimenting. Debauchery, was the word in Orlais. But something in the way he said it did not denote it. He was not talking about nobility excesses. And he clarified it in his next words.

“No need to hide it, Junia, it is fine. I don’t think it is bad, not all. Actually, I cherish it.” Upon Junia’s puzzled expression, he continued. “I was not supposed to tell you that, but what the hell, I want to tell you everything.” He took his moment for some laughter before he continued. “My twin sister is like this. Gwennie, the one who I told you about. She likes women the same way a man would - the same way I do. She actually loved this girl, Lucille. For a long time. To be honest with you, I think she was going to find a way for them to marry. Our father found out, we suspect, and out of the blue, the girl was married to a man.” John’s excitement vanished suddenly - but Junia’s was there, fiercely rekindled, as well as one of Thedas largest smiles, which did not match John’s next words. “Lucille killed herself not long after. Gwennie never truly recovered.”

It took John a while to see Junia’s beaming smile, and he replied with a weak and understanding one when he noticed it. “I take it you are just like her?” Junia mistook the disappointment in John’s voice by the drop in his mood due to talking about Lucille’s suicide.

“I am.” Junia answered, and John nodded, simply, in silence. But his gaze perked up when he heard Junia say “Well… Kind of.” And that perked gaze prompted her to go on with an explanation. “I have been attracted to men on certain occasions.” She paused. John waited for her to continue. And continue she did, after realizing that this was again the Maker’s hand steering His love towards her. She could not have, randomly, out of chance, saved a kindred soul in so many aspects, to the point of understanding the love between two women. Between the most important women in her life. So she would talk to this man about being with other people. She would openly discuss sex with a man who she really wanted to think highly of her, who she didn’t want to think her _indecent_. It took Junia another breath and an extra dose of heavenly encouragement.

“Men don’t know what to do with what the Maker has given them, John. They have mouths, and hands, and noses, and… They don’t even use, no, not really, what is between their legs. They just… Go in, and that’s it, sod over, it’s done. I have been attracted to some men when I was younger, and every time I tried them, I barely had time to regret it.” Junia closed her eyes shut, and faced away from John. She regretted talking about _all the times she had been with men_ , like a slut, and that is not even mentioning that she implicitly made clear she had been with women many times over.

“I know, right? Gwennie told me all about it”.

Junia’s eyes snapped wide open at John again. “She what? You and your sister talk about it?!”

“We talk about _everything_ , Junia. She _knows_ how I think, because we are twins, I suppose.” It was John’s turn to feel ashamed and not be totally frank with the dwarf. “She has never… Came to full terms with a man, but she had her run-ins with them. And she hated these few times bitterly. After she started knowing more of women, she told me how women do it. How they take their time, and use all their Maker-given parts.”

He laughed out loud, and so did Junia. She was baffled and incredulous, actually slightly shaking her head at how the Maker reaffirmed time and again all she believed in. Specially the one point where she and Sister Lucia agreed. And she found really cute that John finally blushed. “I learned to use my Maker given parts myself. And _this_ did _not_ involve my sister!”

More laughter followed. Free, loud, tension-releasing laughter. To the point they both remembered their cups and toasted vividly.

“To Maker-given parts!”

Junia kept telling John about her past, and John probed more on the relationship between Lady Mara and Sister Lucia, as well as Junia’s own relationships. She was pleased to tell him how their families discovered their affair, and one was sent to the Chantry, and the other forcibly married right away. But she still would avoid telling about herself . Throughout most of her life, all her encounters had been casual, and mostly paid for, and that ashamed her. Instead, she probed him back for stories about himself, and Gwen as well.

And she did not tell him how, after staying in Kirkwall’s monastery for three years, she wanted to become affirmed. And how she was denied, despite Lucia and Mara’s influence. Apparently, Grand Cleric Elthina learned of Junia’s intention to become a sister, and denied it herself. And how, slowly, she started working with the Carta. First with small deliveries, then at small hits, and surely, to be one of the organization’s most effective agents around the Waking Sea’s shores. To John, as far as Junia could control it, she was a mercenary.

And John was happy to let Junia know how he had always been attracted to dwarven women, even though they were few and isolated. Dwarves were too insular, and even as a noble, he never got close enough to a dwarven woman like he was now close to Junia. And he made sure she knew how much he was loving it. He was also happy to share some of Gwen’s love stories, and the fact that they were indeed more numerous than his.

Slowly, the hall of the monastery started to empty, and they realized it was about time for the caravan to move. The stood to go to the caravan’s gathering place, and Junia welcomed the distraction. Her heart was pounding fast. She could not say she was having feelings for this male human, but she could feel roots fighting to take hold. She knew he was feeling it all, too, he made it really clear, while at the same time being incredibly respectful. He was giving Junia her space to decide whether she would be willing to pursue something with him.

Junia was pondering whether or not to give it a try - to go back on her decision of not wasting time on men. Clearly, she had never tried one such as John. At least, he _seemed_ to be aware of how not to be a bossing jerk. She paused and looked down, reprimanding herself for thinking that. He was obviously well intentioned. And she had not met a well intentioned lover ever since she left Kirwall to do the Carta’s dirty work. Junia cherished the only pair of  well intentioned lovers she had ever met. And she was sure Lady Mara and Sister Lucia would love to know John. While he longed to introduce her to Gwen, she longed for her moms to know him.

When she raised her gaze decided to do something, she noticed the hall was _too empty_. People had simply vanished, and all doors were closed. John kept talking about something in Highever, oblivious to the change in the room.

“Shhhh!” she said, and started to gather their things in a lot of haste. John was puzzled at that, but in a second started to help her, despite not understanding what was going on.

“Be ready, John. Let’s get our things and run. Something is not right.”

Junia knew that monastery, and led them running through a door which into the cloister. At the same time, armed men poured into the hall from the opposite end.

 


	4. Stay with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Junia need to fight for his freedom. And she needs to decide whether to exert hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of death and sex.

Junia rushed through a door, followed closely by John. It was true he was wearing a hauberk, but Maker, that dwarf could move fast! Her steps were broad and swift, to the point he was actually jogging to keep up the pace. They went through what seemed to be a small kitchen, filled with servants scraping dishes clean, and soon, through another smaller door, they were in a long hallway. Numerous doors filled each side of the aisleway, and Junia would fling them open as they passed. John understood what she was doing: they swung outward into the corridor, and while they would not prevent anyone from following them, they were certainly a nuisance, and would slow any pursuer.

“What is going on?!” John asked, still trying to grasp what was happening.

Junia didn’t have much patience as her mind raced through multiple possibilities, trying to devise the best escape path. “What does it look like? They are coming after you!” And it was true. Whoever it was, they were coming for John, and she could easily lose him in a monastery she knew all too well. She had Behrat’s money in her backpack, and John’s ransom had always been a welcome extra. But she was not worried about any ransom. She was worried about him! And she would not let them take John, not on her watch.

“But who, the people from the chantry?!”

“Yes, John, Beatrix herself wants you! Now shut up, or they’ll fucking hear us!” Caring about John more than Junia would like was upsetting her. Door after door, her mind yelled at her that the Maker makes do with no fools. Yet, there she was guiding that _noble_ \- someone would clearly be ransomed, and not killed - hell, maybe not even _hurt_ \- to safety. Those doors were sister cell doors. And most would protest to have it yanked open with no warning.

Junia opened a few more doors, but suddenly backtracked through them, making sure they were kept swung open and they retreated their way for a bit. John just followed and didn’t ask anything. He didn’t want to anger her more, and in turn feel angry himself, despite being led by her. And he was now sure they were being chased, as the first doors they opened started to shut hard, and the sister’s voices started shouting at other male ones. John had no idea what they were saying, but Junia knew they were not being kind to the sisters, who cried foul at men entering their cloister.

They went through one of the doors, which led into a huge kitchen, filled with people cooking, ovens, boiling cauldrons and all kinds of vegetables and sausages. This kitchen led outside, and John was thrilled to notice they were out in the stables. They would need to make their way through a series of stalls, and again, Junia’s legs rushed her to the point that John started lagging behind. Humans were so slow, Maker! But now he was no longer lagging - he was outright stopped in front of a stall.

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing, let’s go!” She snapped again. John unfurled some ropes, and brought an enormous horse out of the stall. It was a gray horse, muscular and fidgety, who resisted the gentle pull of the reins with his head, but followed its lead with nervous paws. “That is a war horse, John. If you want to steal one, at least steal a fast one.”

“A _destrier_ is exactly what I need, Junia”, he remarked, easily mounting and helping the dwarf up. She was not happy, but she conceded John was comfortable on top of that ridiculously tall beast, who snorted and blew out of its nostrils, seemingly objecting to being ridden by strangers. Yet she was outright baffled when John set the small buckler on his arm, loosened his sword in the scabbard, all the while guiding the horse with no more than his _knees_. The horse obeyed the gentle touch of leg pressure, all the while looking like it was complaining heavily. She understood why he wanted a des- whatever a war horse is called. He was a knight, and a good one at that. He needed a trained horse. Astride that animal, he was a menace much harder to deal with than on foot. The only issue was that _she_ wasn’t, and she did not feel safe with her legs spread wide apart, barely fitting in the saddle they were sharing. Riding horses was not meant for dwarves.

John sunk his ankles on the horse’s flanks, who answered with a loud neigh and galloped ahead. The man used the reins to maneuver the animal around through the outer streets of the monastery, and darted across its gates with a prize: a spear which a guard left leaning against the wall. John held the reins with a hand and leaned forward, shouting at the snorting horse with all its speed. Junia hugged the human’s back for dear life, genuinely scared at how fast they were going. Falling would surely be fatal, and she kept reminding herself she had a closed body, nothing could harm her. He managed to make out of the perimeter of the Town which surrounded the monastery when Junia looked over her shoulder. “There are five men coming towards us, John! And they seem to be lighter, they’re coming fast, sod it!”

John looked over his shoulder as well and cursed. His horse still had all its energy left, and could withstand a race, but a destrier could not win in the long run against the leaner, lighter geldings their pursuers were riding. That is, _his_ destrier could. He was one of Dennet’s finest, and John had already received offers from Orlesian knights to buy him. But he knew Aegis was an exception, and he should not bet in outrunning the men who came after them. He was in luck, though: right by the side of the road, an open field had just been harvested. Exactly the flat, open, empty ground he needed. He guided the animal towards the field at full speed, already with a plan in mind. “Alright, Junia, this is what we’ll do. I will stop the horse when we are at the far end of the field. When I do that, you jump and run. It is me they are after. And I think I can scare them into running away. You hide by the woods at the edge of the field, and wait for me.”

 _The fuck I’ll run_ , she thought to herself. But she just nodded, as she would be more than happy to be off the horse. John didn’t need to know he was going to have help.

When John reached the far corner of the ample field, the pursuers had just made to its opposite side. He stopped the horse for Junia to get down, which she did nimbly by sliding through the horse’s rear. He beamed a happy smile at the dwarf, who was not expecting this. He was outright enjoying that, she realized, and was unsure whether she disapproved of that. John did not resemble in the slightest bit the helpless man who had pleaded for his life the night before. That was a knight who knew common bandits had no chance to best him in mounted combat. A thrust of envy pierced her flank. It should be nice to be able to fight these noble styles, she thought. It wouldn’t save a duster in an alley from a stab in the back, but she wished she could be as beautiful as him, galloping alone towards five enemies, shield prodded on his left side, the spear pointing skyward, ready to be lowered at the moment of impact. And the bastard was shouting “For Highever!” as he charged onwards! Junia shook her head, spit, drew her daggers and dashed ahead as well.

John’s war beast was enormous, and trained to charge into a wall of spears and shields with no hesitation. The lighter geldings could not deal with the frightening sight of a larger, angrier male coming at full speed at them. The ones at the edges darted away from the incoming destrier, whereas the three in the center hesitated and tried to get out of the way too. Their riders tried to skew them back towards the knight, pulling at their reins, but the animals protested. The one in the center actually pivoted around at the very moment John reached them, and the rider was flung ahead impaled in a spear. The one to John’s left attempted to hit him with an axe, but John deflected the blow with his shield.

The remaining four riders were stunned for a moment with the sight of their mate dead on the ground with his rear pointing upwards, prodded on half of a shattered spear. They needed their spores and at least one hand in their reins to guide their animals, and did not perceive John was now turning towards them, one hand unsheathing, the other arm keeping his buckler up. They were trying to guide their animals back at John, and did it with some success. But they were cursing with frustration as John simply cantered around them, his destrier moving like a fighter dancing and shifting in front of a dazzled enemy. They could not see Junia approaching, moving as silently as she could, ready to pounce.

John circled the men for a few instants, until the moving around had scattered the riders, and made them easy targets for him. The canter then exploded into full gallop, and he charged the next enemy. Again, the man could not make his horse answer promptly, and he tried to block John’s attack with his sword. To no avail, as John shoved the sword aside with the shield, and pierced him straight in the heart, a quick movement of his blade going in and out before the horse was through. A second rider tried to charge John at this moment, but he did not see what pulled him down from his saddle and slit his throat before he hit the ground.

At this point the remaining two men perceived Junia, and John did not give them time to react to her. Again, shouting “For Highever!”, he charged one of them, who fell prey to the same tactics of having his arm shoved aside by the shield, and his chest pierced by the true sword thrust. The one surviving pursuer had no doubt after that. He turned his animal and galloped away as fast as he could. John could not contain himself. “Yeah!!! Run away, fool! Fucking ruffian, yeah!!!”

“John!” Junia tried to bring him back from his excitement, as he shook his sword in the air and had the horse pivot around.

“Maker-cursed villains!!! Flee and fly!!! Yeah!!!”

“JOHN!!!”

John snapped back to reality, looked at Junia with bewildered eyes, a silly, ample smile on his lips. “Did you see that?! How many did we just fight?!”

Junia would have none of it. “Let’s go!” She shouted. He simply agreed in a manner louder than she would have expected her, and helped her back up on the horse. They darted away, leaving four corpses and four lazy horses manuring the freshly harvested fields.

They rode for hours, following routes Junia directed: mostly secondary roads and trails almost too narrow for the large horse. She pointed that after this attack, it was clear there were people looking for John. She overheard some of the men saying that he was to be retrieved alive, but not whole. That cast a shadow of doubt over John’s head, but he did not, in any moment, connect what was happening to him to anything that could be happening in Ferelden. Both he and Junia agreed that they wanted to capture John and ransom him. After all, when he had first been caught, the men Junia would later kill were waiting for him on the shore.

Junia told them to stop as the trail they were in brushed a cliff. Although John was sad to part with such a good horse, he did as she instructed, and they sent the horse off, in order to create fake tracks. And then, they went into the cliff.

___

They were under the ground for a few hours now, but John had not ceased to be outright awed by the magnificence of the ruins they were in. He had never been in the Deep Roads before – always a no man’s land, the most dangerous place in all of Thedas. But now, hiding there with that _amazing_ woman, he could not help but to look around and feel incredibly small before all that the dwarves had once built. The statues, the paving, the stairwells, the sheer size of that crumbling monolith of History. Yet, entranced as he was, he _had_ to follow his nose and ears to a place he knew he needed, fast. Junia had said darkspawn shouldn’t be a problem: for a year now, the Deep Roads under the Free Marchers, specially around Kirkwall, were pretty much safe, whereas in Ferelden they were a no go. So he dared to venture away from the protection of those enthralling dark eyes, beckoned by the smell, and later on, the sound of rushing water. “Don’t go too far that I can’t hear you”, she said as he walked away.

It didn’t take him long to be flabbergasted once again. He reached this cave where a crack in the ceiling allowed a beam of sunlight to illuminate a small waterfall that pooled in a crystalline, cold, mirror-like pond. His torch was absolutely not needed. Above him and around the gush of water, plants had embedded themselves in between cracks in the stone, and cast long, lazy tendrils that swooshed in the light breeze that ran through the cave. Small fish curled the otherwise pristine surface in childish waves. John beamed a broad smile, and put the bundle he was carrying on the floor. Still part of the plunder from his once captors: a bar of soap, a sharp razor and clean clothes.

He breathed in the place’s beauty and cold once more, and looked at his reflection on the arpeggiated waters. With a snigger he simply dove into the freezing waters and with loud shouts jumped and hopped around to get acquainted with Highever cold temperatures.

A few moments after that comic display, John thought he was ready to guide the razor with a steady hand. And he was absolutely wrong, as the last time he had shaved had been at least ten years ago. Gwenie would say he looked like a girl when he shaved, and that was a side effect he wouldn’t mind this time.

“By the Maker, John, you look like a girl!”

Junia laughed out loud, joined by the human, who had not told her of this particular detail now that his once lush, long beard was gone. They had agreed that he was being looked for, so shaving would be necessary to avoid further trouble. But Junia never knew that without his beard, half of John’s face length was gone. His protruding brows, long forehead and receding hairline still upheld much of the male features of his face. But it was now round, with a pointy, delicate chin, and his lips were as full as Junia’s, and even pinker. He had vivid lips which would befall a woman really well, but were kept dimmed when framed by the moustache. Now they shone with a kissability Junia had only seen in other women. The same kissability _he_ saw on the dwarf’s mouth.

“That’s the goal!” John said with a soft smirk, and sat by Junia’s side, next to the fire.

“Yeah, a girl who fell face first in thorny bush!” She riposted quickly.

John was betting he would catch her off guard, and Junia showed signs of having been hit below the belt, despite her witty remark on the many cuts on John’s cheeks and neck. Noticing these delicate features also made her realize how full his eyelashes were. Both the human and the dwarf allowed themselves to laugh their laughters out, taking pleasure in each other’s pleasure and amusement.

They were camped on the landing of a large stairwell, not too far from the crack which allowed them to go through a collapsed entrance. The broken pieces of an enormous dwarven statue shielded the light of their fire from most possible onlookers down below, if any. John felt incredibly safe because Junia said they were safe. And Junia felt safer than she usually would. And prettier. She had never been wooed this way before in her life. Never so insistently, never so _earnestly_. It felt good, it felt odd, it felt foolish. It was a sensation she honestly had no idea how to deal with. At first she was sure he was simply making sure she would keep him alive and guide him back home. Then, she believed him when he said he found her amazing, and her faith in the Maker beautiful. And now, at this point… John did not allow her time to be sunken in her thoughts. His barrage of words kept her mind busy, and her heart soothing.

“You know, Junia, we make a hell of a team. Seriously! Did you see those fools earlier today? How many of them could not deal with the two of us? Holy Maker, do you think my body is closed too? No, yours is. Closed too tight, I would say.”

They both let out a hearty laughter. Junia remarked:

“Nah, if you had a closed body you wouldn’t be menstruating all over your face!”

More laughing, where Junia attributing a feminine characteristic to John evaded him completely, but not her. It also did not evade her the fact that John’s tone became calmer, and he shuffled on the ground to be closer to her. She allowed him to hold both her hands into his. The two of them noticed how that felt: her hands were chubbier, with shorter, calloused fingers. His felt longer and leaner, but his skin rougher, his bones sturdier, calloused as well, for similar yet very different reasons. Junia’s heart ached. John’s longed.

“I mean it, Junia. You swept me off of my feet. You are amazing. You are gorgeous! You are incredibly intelligent, you are savvy, you are faithful, you are strong, You… I mean, seriously, I can go on here. I know _a lot_ of adjectives.”  He allowed her giggling a moment, and continued. “When we arrive at Highever, stay with me.”

John also allowed time for that plea to sink. It sunk in large brown eyes, widening continuously and ever so slowly. A sight to behold, a sight deserving of the silence of a long pause.

“You don’t need to go to Orlais to look for employment once you get to Highever. I mean, I know you have to deliver that chest, and I know they will pay you more there but… Shit, I’m a prince, Junia. My father can employ you – Hell, I can even have you knighted. When we get to Highever you should go with me to Denerim to help Gwenie, and then you can join Highever’s men… And…”

“...And?”

“And be my woman.”

He should have stopped there. But instead he added:

“Who wouldn’t want to be with someone who knows _these many_ adjectives?”

Jonh was not expecting that Junia would react so quickly, so detachedly as she did.  He could swear she felt shaken when he asked her to stay with him. But he was obviously wrong, or maybe he simply ruined it all by capping his bare heart with a fucking joke. On her end, she merely watched, with perfectly cloaked bewilderment, her response leave her mouth, her uncommitted movements, and hit John straight in his delicate-lined jaw:

“Sod you, John. If I do that, I will be _your sister’s_ woman. You still have a lot to shave if you want me to look at you like that.”

John’s response was a kind smile, blotched with the obvious stains of heart breaking.

“Of course. You can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”

They both stood there by the fire, in silence. They had eaten already, and they needed to give some time for the horse to lead their pursuers away.

“I’ll take first watch.” Junia said, breaking the silence. John nodded, smiled a toothless version of his previous smile, and went inside his tent.

Junia enjoyed the opportunity to be alone with her thoughts in the Deep Roads. Although born in the surface, and more religious than most humans, something in resting deep beneath the ground gave her peace, and a chance to let her thoughts spread comfortably in her mind. She did not notice it though - this ancestral memory was properly blocked by all the defenses her unconscious self could muster, and she did not attribute this feeling of comfort under the ground to the Stone. Not really. It was the peace, the quiet, and the… She took a deep breath and looked towards John’s tent. It was dark inside, and she could hear the human shuffling in his bed roll. With all her thoughts doing the same, Junia was able to properly spot the bitter regret of dismissing John’s bare heart with a joke about his sister. It had not been right, and it kept being the pea under a very comfortable thought mattress.

Delaying Beraht’s delivery was not bothering her. Risking her life for a man who would not approve of her if he knew the truth was not bothering her. Well, it was, but only the hiding. John would not approve of her being in the Carta because being a bandit was plainly wrong. No, not plainly, but in his world, in his perfect world of rights and wrongs, and a full belly, music and a loving family, it was plainly wrong. In his place, she would never agree the Maker would bless a bandit. But in her world, it was different. In her world, the Maker’s testimony should be shown in blood and gold. Strength carries the Chant for the poor. Not poetry.

Poetry does this whole other different thing, this weird feeling in her stomach she was not used to. This odd twitching of the cheeks in silly little smiles at which she needed to shake her head. The unusual sensation that you might actually matter and be important instead of actually carving importance out of other people’s respect.  Junia ran her hands through her hair, and looked at John’s tent again. In the absolute silence of the Deep Roads, his breathing fought the crackling of the fire. She raised her dark eyes, reddened by the flame’s glow, up to the crack of less darkness which led to the surface. Was he straight? Wouldn’t he be just… Excited?

He should not fling promises like this, so carelessly. Being his woman. Living a right life. He never said anything like… But did he… She shook her head vigorously. He could not be thinking of marriage - she met him a mere day ago! Still, all the signs the Maker had shown… The Maker makes do with no fools. You grab a bald by the hair.

 _The one who repents, who has faith,_  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
She shall know true peace.

Peace. Rest. And he was a man. A man, trained by a woman, apparently. She was certain she had been with worst men in her life. She could give him a chance. The worst thing that could happen is for her to regret remembering that men were not meant for love. And crush his heart. Which was already crushed. And that, without being given a chance to prove Junia wrong. Maybe she would indeed want to be Gwen’s woman. But maybe, and just maybe, she would need to refrain herself from wanting that, because she would be…

John was staring at the glow of the fire on his tent’s canvas. In some moment he must have dozed off, because when he realized, Junia was crawling inside slowly. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, still trying to adjust to that - a dream? He could feel her soft skin as her arms moved slowly on each of his sides, and then her knees moving astride his hip. He didn’t know whether to smile or to move, to meet that sweet surprise with eager hands - it could indeed be a dream! He almost did both, and did none, simply staggering midway through any of the things he intended.  Junia’s hair dangled from the sides of her face and brushed against his chest. Her breasts did the same, and the jolt that finally woke him to action touched her bare soft belly, and confirmed she was fully naked.

Junia was not expecting _that_ particular touch. John’s surprise and enjoyment were so honest, so full of glee, she had forgotten for a moment she was doing something that was in fact a novelty for her, despite a distant past of attempts. It was that poke on her belly which reminded her she was about to kiss a man. Shivers woke her breasts as her nipples brushed against the linen of his undershirt - the only piece of clothing he was wearing, and not for long. She moved to sit and undress him, but his mouth followed hers, and they locked in a thirsty kiss. Again, eagerness overwhelmed her. She was not being assailed - she was being savoured. It was not the rush of horny men. The realization of John’s kiss scared and immobilized Junia. He undressed himself, rocked the tent with his arms as he did so, and they both took breath amidst a quaff of giggles and a couple of pecks.

“I can’t believe this, I…”

John wanted to prove he really knew a lot of adjectives, but Junia’s fingers held them all and his lips in place. Her other hand moved to find John’s dick, but encountered his own hand instead. He really, really, wanted to know her deepest. Right now. But not yet. First, he wanted her to know his shivering and uncertainty had a higher calling. He brushed his hands against her breasts a couple of times before actually catching a handful in each and caressing them slowly. Junia mounted him, saddled by his stiff member between her buttocks. John loved to hear her low pitched voice reach higher moaning tones when he played with a nipple in his mouth.

Junia could not believe he had not yet forced himself inside of her. She rocked her hips back and forth, ever so slowly, in her own anticipation of the moment he would go in, glad it didn’t have to be now. She rejoiced each time each of her breasts gained the attention of his lips and tongue, and actually missed his beard where his shaved chin rasped the soft skin. And a smile, a kind one, one which quickly spread to her eyes was inevitable when he got to know other parts of her body that yearned for the clumsy hands. Junia arched ahead like a lazy cat when John cupped her soft belly and squeezed it, supporting her with a strong arm behind her back and laying her down - again, rocking the tent with his head as he did so. They giggled as she was finally able to enjoy the height difference: now that he was on top of her, she felt surrounded by the man - and it felt as safe as the Stone she would not recognize.

As Junia spread her legs apart, John inhaled deeply, letting every note of her scent contest and humble the ones he had imagined in what seemed so long ago. He inhaled a second time, this time with his face in between her thighs and his nose buried deep inside Junia’s bush. She let out a loud gasp as, again, it was not a nose she was expecting there. Let alone the tongue and lips and fingers that fought over the dominance of her mound. A tad too fast, a tad too strong, she thought, but thoroughly enjoyable if adjusted. She reached down to provide some guidance, and soon two fingers happily probed her insides while his mouth ate the outside. And the ease with which he could reach her breasts! John had his eyes closed deeply, but he needed to open them and let Junia’s silhouette sink in. Seeing her from that angle was a gift. Her hips rocked and urged him to continue his work, distracted as he was by the sight.

Junia’s moans started to grow louder and stronger, her hands shoving John’s head into her to the point of making him as breathless as her. His two fingers rammed her as her hips shoved in the opposite direction, directing the ever growing rhythm. She could not believe she was being eaten by a man, and Maker, she so wanted that beard there! It was a kind of beauty she was not familiar with, one she had once thought possible, but had been proven wrong time and again. And if the Maker had not sent enough signs, here it was: love, in the brute shape of a kind male.

John gasped as Junia’s legs closed tight on his head and, again, they both giggled as she immediately released the climax spasms that ran through her body. He could not believe he was still seeing only a dim silhouette of the woman whose details he wanted to _drink_. So he saw with his hands. From her feet, up her legs, light enough to feel the brush of the hairs on her legs, down into the spit soaked bush of her pussy, through her soft belly which demanded grabs by both hands; hands that met each breast, reunited on her neck, and allowed the thumbs time to fondle with lips and caress nose and eyelids. His hands parted ways as they felt the hair on each armpit, and up the inner side of her arms. They finally rested on her hands with interlocked fingers as, finally, it was John’s time to moan loudly as he slid inside of Junia.

He moved as slowly and as broadly as he could. Junia was glad his dick did not hurt. She had been afraid for a moment when she realized this part was finally happening, but it went in smoothly and she actually pushed his hip in with her feet. Being in this position had never been pleasing before. It always felt like a violation, like an assault. Now, she welcomed the man over her, the Stone above, the pillars on each side of her face, which would bend and drop tender, breathless kisses on her lips. The soft brush of his belly on hers, and the bump which would have her slide up the slightest bit all the time. Could it be this good? John did not remember it could be this good.

And Junia wished it would last longer, yet after but a few moments she felt John about to pull it out completely. She was quicker and held him in place with her legs.

“What are you doing?” She asked, through playful smirk.

John bent his head to a side, not ceasing completely to move, only a gentle rock back an forth, and seized the opportunity to gather himself for a bit more. “Pulling out?”

“Don’t worry about that. Human seed is weak in dwarves. Just…” She too wished she could see his face. Junia cupped it tenderly instead. “...You never did it inside, did you?”

“No, but –"

She cut him short, still caressing the crisp surface of a soft looking cheek. “Trust me. I can’t get child from a human.”

“Are you sure? Is it really weak?”

“Yes,” she giggled at the flashes of lust overcoming his hesitation. “Cum inside me, John. I would love this to be a memory to you as well.”

He bent down again to kiss her. A long one, which agreed to Junia’s request, and gave John a bit more time to keep tasting her. Soon he was back atop the pillars, and resumed the charge, vigorously this time, without holding back. When he came, Junia arched back in excitement as she saw the spams in his face and at the loud gasp that escaped him as he undid himself inside her. Junia pulled him down in a strong hug and a lengthy, lazy kiss. They embraced, legs intertwined, and slowly, amidst kisses, laid next to each other. The dwarf shuffled and eventually nested herself comfortably against the human. They both agreed this was the mating the Maker intended for the races, as it could not feel more perfect.

John closed his eyes and his breathing steadily grew longer, raspier. Junia, although contempt at what happened and not expecting it to go on, felt her insides shiver as her own eyes seemed to see her where she was laying. Naked, in the arms of a man she met the night before. Love is to be given or purchased, and received always with kindness. Her eyes were used to see her in that way, nested or nesting someone, so it was not her gaze that weighted so much. It was John’s. His pale eyes, closed above her, condemned Junia with holy righteousness. She knew she would loose him for the night soon, if not for the morning. “Easy”, echoed from his eyes. His curiosity was satisfied, and she fell for the excitement of a man who is excited about everything.

Coincidence or not, though, her eyes filled with and held tears of a redeeming smile when John dropped a soft peck in between Junia’s brows. “Good night, my dear.” The last word took its time to come out, and she felt as if John, even drowsy, took care to pick a word that wouldn’t sound too green for a day long relationship.

She wanted to seize he was still awake, and asked taking the same care as he with the choice of words. “John?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’m a whore?”

His answer took no time to come out. “Unless you intend to charge me for this and I didn’t realize, no, of course not.”

She giggled sheepishly at the answer and at the dragged way his voice sounded so close to the edge of slumber. “Silly you.”

The silence that lingered was far from uneasy. Junia was feeling her own self starting to slide into the void which was sleeping for dwarves. She caught herself thinking she would like to dream, although she could tell exactly why. Very few times she wished that. She was surprised when John called her again.

“Junia?”

“Yes?”

“Does this mean you will stay with me?”

“Of course, John.”

  


  
  



	5. Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junia and John arrive in Kirkwall and make a stop to meet Junia's mothers. As John goes to bed and Junia joins Lucia and Mara for a late night family moment, she learns that the plans the Maker has for her are the opposite of what she thought.

John was a religious man, but for some reason the statues of Andraste’s trials and all the saints, when in large numbers, surrounded by those many candles, bothered him. Luckily, he was not there. Junia was alone with her moms, as she liked to call the elderly couple sharing the lavish room with her. The windows were ample and would oversee the monastery's orchard if it was daytime. Right now, the sheer size of that garden could only be inferred by the numerous light sconces that were lit in Kirkwall’s warm spring night. If John was there, he would also be able to infer Lucia’s importance: the two broad oak shelves were filled with rolls of documents, more than one could count. On the opposite side of the ample room, the marble oratory with the many saints, Andrastes and candles. A broad desk next to the oratory was illuminated by another plethora of candles, but the women were on the opposite side, by the window: the humans sat next to each other on a comfortable chesterfield; although describing it as “next to” doesn’t do it justice.

Their closeness lifted Junia’s soul, reflecting in the way they rested what went on inside their hearts. This was likely her favorite place in the world: she was lying down in a comfortable white carpet made of thick, fluffy fur, that felt like laying on a giant cat. Her legs and bare feet rested idly, and her arms were folded under her chestnut waves. A simple cotton dress, shapeless, revealed the shape of her belly and breasts. And the large brown eyes rejoiced at the sight of the elderly couple: Mara was smaller than Lucia by a full foot, with long white hair kept in a careful braid, its tip nonchalantly twisted by Lucia’s fingers. She had small dark eyes, starting to hide behind the corner of her lids. And even with a quite lithe build, she was sitting  _ on _ Lucia’s lap, both arms lazily clasped around her lover and hands resting on the other woman’s far shoulder. Lucia’s hair hadn’t been completely taken by the white. It fought the pale blonde in thin strokes to her shoulder line. Her features were stronger and chiseled, although eased by pink cheeks carefully crafted in the rich diet of the cloister. Her eyes were as dark as Mara’s, and fired with a passion that did not seem to reflect the familial moment they were having. The ease with which they reposed on each other showed clearly that the many wrinkles on their faces were younger than their love. The couple wore the same simple cotton dress as Junia, which was also a ritual: a late night relaxing family time, in simple night gown.

“I still have to say I am surprised to see you with that man,  _ Junina _ .” Mara said in her calm, almost inaudible tone. Her voice was sweet and her words elongated, lasting just enough to please whoever was listening to it. “I never thought you were the kind to fall for knights.”

“But he is not any knight, my love”, Lucia, too loud for that quiet room, intervened, and slapped Mara’s cheek with the tip of Mara’s own braid and a quick peck. “I had the chance to talk to the gentleman, and I liked what I saw. Junina found this new brand of knights that have read too many tales for their own good, and lived a life too soft to harden them. You can say by how good his Orlesian is. I wish you had the chance to talk to him, my life.”

“He is not soft, Lucia.” It was Junia’s time to intervene. One listening would not be able to tell she was not a native of  _ Chiesaforte _ . She spoke the language of Kirkwall without any trace of an accent. Only traces of a lingering smile that at first had her cheeks aching, and now, two weeks after her first night with John, gave her words a sweet, docile flow neither of the humans saw before. “He’s seen death. You should have seen how he dealt with the sodders that were hunting him. And he’s been to other battles before. He told me he always rode in any campaign his father led.”

“He is a knight of tournaments.” Mara said with increasing disdain seeping from the musical flow of her soft words. “He is a knight of brave displays of nothing, and fighting because nobles have to do something in times of peace.”

Mara’s words reflected much of Junia’s own views, and she felt the sting pierce and let leak some of the comfort which had been filling her up  in these past two weeks since they left the Deep Roads. She did not offer a reply; that came from Lucia instead. “This is irrelevant, my life. It doesn’t matter whether or not he is green as a wand, or a seasoned warrior. Junina is clearly happy and infatuated with the gentleman. We haven’t seen her this way since… All Merciful Andraste, we have never seen our Junina in love!”

Junia blushed and brought her barely naked shoulders closer to her face in a way that would have John spinning. But alas, he was not there to see any of that. And Mara sang to that silly little smile on the dwarf’s full lips. “That is indeed true, my heart.” She paused for yet another quick peck to Lucia’s lips. Junia could never have enough of watching them unleash their affection. Which was completely absent outside of those walls. “You do seem very happy, Junina. Lulu is right, we have never seen you like that. And it helps that the young man is wealthy, no?”

“That’s not it”, Junia was quick to add, sitting forward in a quick movement. She held her soles pressed together with her hands, and rocked back and forth ever so slightly, taking the time to organize the thoughts in her head. Thoughts she had been trying to avoid and ignore since the moment she noticed she had feelings for John. Thoughts which had grown to silence her for a time Lucia and Mara respected. “He says I can be one of the members of his… How is the word again? Menee… Meenee…

“Mesnie”, Mara completed softly.

“Yes, this. Well, a group of warriors sworn to his service. He still doesn’t have one, but he says he will start one when we arrive. He has a good friend, this sodder called Roland, who would like to join.”

“Not warriors, dear,” Mara intervened again. “Knights.”

“I know!” Junia expelled, looking up straight at her mothers with defensive wide eyes. “But he says he will knight me. We just need to get there, and get the blessing from this mother Malol woman.”

Lucia frowned, still petting Mara’s braid tip in her hands. Some silence elapsed, as these reactions were not common for Junia. “My dear daughter, why do you try so hard? You don’t have to do this for wealth. You don’t even need to thieve for coin, Junina. Mara and I can --”

“No!” Junia’s tone rose as her brows furrowed even deeper. “I already told you both, I will not live off of Mara’s husband coin. And I will never be  _ poor _ again.”

Mara would never raise her voice. Instead, her words became longer, slithered past Junia’s guard to brush at her bare core. The loudest one would hear from Mara would be either a giggle or a sob. And this was none. “And will you be this gentleman’s concubine instead?”

The unsaid reverberated through the quiet. Junia even murmured “I will be his knight”, but Mara’s words rang true, and Junia’s voice did not rise above the silence. Mara stood from Lucia’s lap, not before holding the other woman’s face in both her hands and leaving a soft, slow kiss in her wake. She groaned slightly as she knelt in front of Junia, caressing her daughter’s locks with lazy, long fingers. “This is not wrong, Junina. As it would not be wrong for you to accept the money I have through my husband. You would not need to be with your… Other questionable company, either. The Maker made you for loving, my dear, dear daughter. Your lips are for kissing, your voice for singing. These beautiful hands…”

Lucia watched it all, amazed at how Mara’s kind smile persevered through their daughter’s turmoil. Her own face was contorted in pity, and her eyes full of water. She much rather preferred when Junia’s soul was light and feathery, and love sublimated all around her. Now… Unfortunately, and to a point that it crushed Lucia’s heart, she was the usual beautiful dwarf, crushed by the weight of being exactly that: an outcast, both among her kin and her faith.

“He told me he would…” Junia hesitated, and raised her large dark eyes to Mara, made shiny by tears unshed. “...He would make me honest, mom. He did say that. And I punched him in the shoulder and told him to go fuck himself. Yesterday.”

Mara shook her head and brought Junia to herself in a tight embrace. She caressed her daughter’s chestnut locks and dropped little careful kisses on the top of her head. “These knights of peace say a lot of things, Junina. They rarely can act on it. Even if they really mean it at the moment they say it. The word of a tournament knight is a rainbow. Colorful and beautiful, but distant, and never attainable.”

Lucia shook her head, with a voice tenfold more potent than Mara’s. “This one may be different, my life. You didn’t speak to him, I did. He is not any knight, he is a second son of a high baron, with a twin sister, and no pressures for sitting his father’s throne.  _ Giovanni _ Cousland is a good man, I am a good judge of character, I’ll--”

In an instant Mara had her small black eyes widened and inches from Lucia’s. Even Junia broke out of her gloom at the sudden and quick movement of her smaller mom. “What is the gentleman’s name, you say?” Lucia started with “Giovanni. No, not Giovanni, he says it John, but--” She stopped speaking as Mara stepped away, covering her mouth with both hands and shaking her head as vigorously as she was capable, which was really slow. “Andraste all merciful mother of souls who weighs our sins and finds us pure!..”, she exclaimed under her breath.

“Mara, what is it?” Junia inquired, springing to her feet, exchanging puzzled eyes with Lucia.

“The fleet Master brought my husband the news this morning. Highever was taken by assault. The Couslands were killed. No hostage made. Their fleet is scattered and being chased in the sea.”

\---

Junia did not need light to traverse the alleyways of  _ La Città Bassa _ , mostly because her dwarven eyes could deal with the almost total darkness of empty paths that would be mostly crowded under sunlight. It was the middle of the night, and no stars shone in what would be a clouded sky. She knew she would be able to see any sodder before they could see her, elves included. Elves can see far away and hear like dogs, but the darkness belongs to the Carta. And she knew she would be able to deal with any duster who came her way, especially after Behrat took over. No one in the Carta messes with someone working directly for him. And in case they changed their minds, she had her daggers ready under her cloak. Junia was back in breeches, boots, shirt and leather jerkin, with no time to waste.

The last two weeks had been… Heavenly. She had convinced herself that the Maker had sent John as a reward for her bravery, for trusting the closed body He had given her, for spreading His testimony in blood.  _ Raska _ , he was even a man, the first one who had managed to hold her interest for more than a day ever since she knew what feeling attracted meant. And he was faithful, ready to share and embrace Lucia’s theology of love. No, she still hadn't told him she was with the Carta, and wouldn’t have to! She would become a knight of Highever and… She wiped tears with the back of a clenched fist at the possibility of marriage. They already knew each other as man and woman, and the weeks together only made them yearn for more. Those were  _ his  _ words spilling through her mind, but she felt like they were becoming just like her moms! Like she always wanted to be. 

But no, she got it all wrong. Is was  _ she _ who had been sent by the Maker to save him. To rescue him from captors, twice. Why did she think the Maker would act through men? Junia halted her pace, in between two tall walls somewhere in Lowtown’s mazes. She looked around her with fear in her eyes. Slowly Junia registered the dirt, the trash, the cracks and stench in which she treaded. Light caught her gaze, and she followed it, to find the many candles and sconces of Hightown shining above that garden of filth which was Lowtown. If the Couslands had been wiped out, John was destitute.  _ She _ had been sent to rescue him, not the other way around. She would not become a knight, she would still be a thief and a lyrium smuggler, or else… Or else she would be poor again!

A pang somewhere in the middle of her chest stiffened her.  _ Holy Maker _ , she thought to herself, with a weird mix of dread and relief. She touched that throbbing pulse in between her breasts and pursed her thick lips in a smile which would be worthy of candid Mara. Junia knew what was going on, and she wasn’t nearly close to know how to deal with it. But she was sure of what to do  _ now _ . And leaving John to fend for himself was not it.

Her quick steps soon brought her to the poorly lit areas of the harbour. There was no such thing as nighttime in there, and numerous lanterns illuminated the as numerous taverns and watering holes of the wharf. Coterie thugs controlled the area, but this was one of the few parts of Kirkwall where competing factions would lay down their differences and allow business, their own, that is, to flow. At least, while sober heads were in charge. When inebriated minds prevailed, the Coterie would step in to make sure things would flow back to normal. That did not mean anyone would be able to just walk in, but Junia’s face was known, and the only objection she faced was a few nods from sodders who were there to keep the order.

She slid in a pisshole where she knew she could find a few useful contacts. Actually, if things were bad in Highever, it was very likely this is where the smugglers running that ring would have ran too. And she wasn’t wrong. The place, which was not large to start with, was crawling with people, and the heat inside was unbearable. The stench of sweat of different races, bad spirits, and burned food should make it all very familiar to the same dwarf who felt at home at the clean, scented, lavish room where she had been with her moms moments before. But Junia was not comfortable in that place, even if she felt safe and in her element. Realizing this wouldn’t have bothered her before Mara’s revelation. But now, she could not allow herself to grow out of her trade.

“Salroka!” Came the shout before she could recognize anyone, most taller than her, in the midst of the hovering smoke. Junia turned to see a familiar, goofy, dwarven face, of Behlen’s Nose. She didn’t know his name, but Junia never really bothered to ask. “How’s Trian’s Nose, salroka?” They found an empty spot by the counter and talked a bit, amidst all the ruckus, about Behlen’s Nose’s brother. In the end, she did not need to even ask about Highever. “You shoulda seen that, Junia. Out of nothing, sodders from Amaranthine, everywhere.” And they went on talking - Behlen’s Nose, mostly. Junia was focused on not letting the news of the attack of Amaranthine show too much through her, at the same time she judged her own self for caring so much. Piss ale was brought, and Behlen’s Nose kept talking. Junia kept listening.

In the end, there were two good things Junia learned: Highever had been war ready, and Amaranthine seized the opportunity that their army had marched south to deal with Darkspawn. That made sense, the Deep Roads under Ferelden had been impossible to deal with lately. It was logical that they would at one point pour on the surface. And as they had been ready for deployment most of Highever’s fleet was able to escape before Amaranthine’s could blockade it. They made it to the Storm Coast, but they had no leader. The boats were still not in Amaranthine’s hands - but soon would be, as the invading fleet was ready to sail there - as soon as the Storm Coast’s weather did not make true to its name. But the teyrn, the teyrna, and everyone else in the Castle were murdered. No hostages taken.

“We’re heading to Orzammar in the morrow. We’ve a ship set up. We bound to Jader, aye? And go from there? We cants go through north Ferelden, the whole thing is a mess in ‘ere.” Junia was listening, and appalled that she did not want to go to Orzammar with Behlen’s Nose. She knew, though, she needed an excuse for this. It was common knowledge among the Carta that she went to pick something for Behrat - even if most people didn’t know exactly what.

“I might try my chances through Ferelden, salroka. Lots of good plunder to be had in war times. People just leave things behind. I may even get some merchandise back I sold to templars there not long ago.” Behlen’s Nose seemed to have bought into it, as he cracked a laugh, raised a glass, and said Junia would be Behrat’s second in no time, and then he would have her killed, because Behrat doesn’t trust seconds. Well. Maybe he trusts she-seconds, since Jarvia had been with him for a while now. “And ye wouldnst be able to provide ‘im with the same loyalty she provides, eh, salroka? Unless ye provide somes loyalty to  _ her _ instead!” More laughter, and Junia was glad he had started drinking earlier, and was already past the point of being able to remember much. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her?

She was about to stand and leave when Behlen’s Nose held her wrist and pulled her closer, in that awful need drunkards have for speaking way too close. “And I’ll tell ye what! But just for ya, because I really, really like ya, way more than I like Jarvia, I’ll tell ya. They’re expecting one of them Highevers to come through ‘ere, aye? Says he looks Fereldan, with a long ginger beard. Shouldn’t be hard to spot. Five, I says, five sovereigns on the sodder’s head, Junia! Donts even have to be alive, aye? If ye’re staying here, could be a good catch for ya. If ya catch him, gimme me some coins, will ya? Of the golden ones? Whole coterie is aware, though. Might be too many cooks for this broth, aye?”

\---

Junia felt her whole body ache, as if she had taken the longest track of her life. Her feet throbbed with pain, her neck was stiff, and her legs felt like they had given up on trying to make up for their lack of length. Still, she tried her best not to make too much noise as she walked in the small yet comfortable room. Outside, through the crack of the window, an orange line crisscrossed the sky, dividing it in dark and light shades of blue. She rested her dark eyes on the sleeping man on the bed. She had to giggle. His dick was stiffer than her neck. It was so weird that men had hard-ons early in the morning, even if they had recently… She had started to bend to remove her pants and, coincidentally, felt his seed ooze from her. Junia was still getting used to it, specially after the past two weeks. John loved cumming inside. And he did so almost every night since their first time. It pleased her to see him that happy, and she was actually adjusting to the new… ritual of sharing a bed with a man every night. Not that particular night, though.

She had intended to spend this night with him as well. The plan was to have the late nighter with her moms, and come to him after that. Not spending the night surrounded by the scum of Kirkwall. Yet, he slept through like an angel, unaware of what she knew, of the news she would need to break to him as soon as he woke up. She would need to be the one to tell him those. And was she damned if she intended to explain to him how she learned the details Mara was not able to provide. She didn’t want to be with the Carta any longer. She was going to be John’s knight, and maybe even… The pang on her chest again. The Maker makes do with no fools. She would never tell him about the Carta. Never. She sniffed a couple of times, sniffed under her armpits, and shook her head.

By the time she came back to the bed, the sky was light blue outside. The clouds had cleared up, and Junia was back to her simple gown, ready to strip and go to bed, dark hair wet, and eyes as well. She had too much to tell John, and nothing she wanted to. Like a good person, a person with nothing to hide, a knight of tournaments, he shifted in bed and opened his eyes as soon as he felt the light of day and Junia’s knee touching the bed. He was not like the bad ones, who are going to sleep now. His hard-on was still there, she noted. 

“Oh, it’s morning. Good morning, my love.” He paused in a curious and sleepy smile, scratching the back of his messy hair “You smell good. Did you just wash yourself?”

He had started calling her “love” a few days ago. Just like Mara and Lucia, before her moms started using more clever pet names. She liked the whole pet name game. “Good morning, Johnny”.

John moved to get out of bed, but Junia held him down. “I woke up awhile ago, but…” John was looking at her, and -  _ Oh, Maker _ \- he knew nothing of what she was holding on. He started to note how her expression was shifting into despair, but Junia held it together and pursed her whole face into a gentle smile, and before it could get undone, she held his face between her hands and dropped a gentle, long kiss on his lips. “This is the closest I have to home. I would like to linger a tad more. Hm? Would you mind coming back to to bed?”

“Sure thing, love. I just need to take a piss.”

She recomposed herself as she waited. Noticing his hard-on was gone when he returned helped her with it, as she giggled sheepishly. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. Come here, Johnny”. They embraced, and soon both were asleep. Junia welcomed the slumber that gave her respite from carrying all the things she didn’t want John to ever come to know. Hopefully all would be solved when they woke up.


	6. The Battle of the Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discovered the fate of John's family, Junia helps him avoid the traps in Kirkwall and they sail to the Storm Coast. But on their way they find a raging storm, and join the first great engagement of the Fereldan War.

You don’t think about death, even as you dance with it daily. You spend your time perfecting your movements so they will be swift at delivering it and veering it away from you. In fighting, every blow is the Reaper’s touch, and you live and breath to deliver him, to act for him, to be his good agent. Good killers live longer. Piling up corpses keeps the blood on your veins running. In the end, that is where the beauty of it all lies: glory is nothing but the Reaper’s favour. Being alive is receiving a good boy pat on the head from Death and a morsel of his affection. A fatherly smirk which says “not now”, and fills you with pride to the proportion of your ability to make sure it is somebody else’s now. Living is to not die. Staying alive is but not being chosen for the the sacrificial slaughter.

If you don’t keep Death happy, he comes for you. You will live until you cross paths with someone who is better at killing than you are. Who kills more than you do. Who will kill you. And when this day comes, you die. And your killers lives. Reaps the benefits of pleasing the Reaper. The Reaper, he looks after his own. His people bask in the bare bones of his reward.

And John… John realized he was really bad at killing. He stood alone at the on the prow of a fat Fereldan cog, feeling the sword Junia gave him a few weeks ago light with the blood he had shed when escaping the monastery. There was more rust than death on it. More rust than deaths on every sword he had ever owned. His own arms carried more of his own blood than other people’s. The gaping kill void around him suffocated the pleads he could cast up the Heavens. His sadness sunk around the mass of his own guilt. It did not rise in raging vapour to the Maker’s nose.

His hand clenched at the taut rope tying the bowsprit to the mast, and he hung his head and wept. Ahead of him, at the end of the grey, blackened sky, somewhere where sky and ocean meet, a storm was crackling silent. Other than his cheeks, John was still dry. He hugged Junia tight when he felt her arms press his hauberk against his waist, and her head nest against the rusty links on his chest. John pushed his lips against the top of her head, and sobbed. Junia was silent as the storm ahead, and felt his tears wet her chestnut hair before the first drops of rain did.

Junia did not know what to say. Having the whole family murdered had also happened to her, but much longer ago, to a point where it was more a beacon of a painful memory, than pain itself. She also had not cared greatly for her family - she had been brought up mostly by servants, never her parents. She would be surprised if her mother had actually breastfed her herself. And apparently, the Couslands had been this special kind of rich. Maybe because John’s mother had not been Cousland rich before becoming one? John had shared a lot about his family in the past two days, ever since he was told about their demise. But apparently, Eleanor had been the breastfeed-her-own-children kind of woman. And missing such mother should probably hurt. Junia decided to break from that train of thought when the image of Mara and Lucia being slaughtered assaulted her, and she closed her eyes at that.

“Don’t you think it is risky to be in a boat in mail, John? This one doesn’t have your grandfather’s special buckle. You should be wearing a padded gambeson”.

John shook his head negatively, and pressed Junia against himself. “A padded gambeson would soak so much water, it would drag me right down. And with a jerkin like yours, I might as well drown in arrows instead of water. _You_ should be in mail, Junia.”

Junia simply shrugged. “I can’t wear these things. I don’t know how you can move in them.”

Silence lingered for a few moments, as they both faced the storm ahead, ignoring the first droplets that announced they were getting too close to it. “I can’t thank you enough, you know?”

Junia’s response was to look up with inquisitive eyes. Those large dark eyes, when striking John, did something to him. They quelched the roaring turmoil, damped the pangs that seemed to tear his insides. Those orbs with a simple question marred the pain in a noise of hope, and that made John delay his words for a few moments, as he took Junia’s eyes in. “I would probably be dead if it weren’t for you. You rescued me in that chantry. You hid me after that monastery. And now, you arranged us this cog. I hope the man in Orzammar is not too pissed at you for taking too long with his money”.

Junia said only “I didn’t arrange the boat, it was Mara. It is her husband’s. I don’t like to use things she gets through him, but this was obviously a worthy exception”.

John continued his thanks, but Junia was not paying proper attention to them. She rested her neck against the human’s armored chest again, and pondered on his first words. He was right. He was absolutely right. He owed _everything_ to her. He was alive because of her, because she knew not to keep her guard down, because she was not a naive fool raised in a crib of gold and beautiful tales. Because, when she killed, it was dirty, and not glorious… And because she thought she could make even more money by diverting to Highever and delivering the princely boy safe and sound to a worried dad. So she would make more money with that than the sum she was once going to deliver to Behrat.

That sum, now, was with Behlen’s Nose - not above the sea, but under it, on its way to Behrat. Before they departed Kirkwall, Junia realized she was not so inclined to gain Behrat’s favor anymore. And Behlen’s Nose cared too much about it to disappear with the money _she_ was responsible for bringing in. But Junia could not avoid it. She had been desperately telling herself that she would _not_ be knighted, that a human lord, destitute or not, would _not_ marry a dwarf. She was not affirmed as a Sister in her youth, she would not lead the easy life of a Lady, nor reap the glory of the Order of Chivalry. Her conscious mind reminded her all the time that **the Maker makes do with no fools**. Yet, the days and nights next to John and his promises, his plans - his fucking plans - led her actions otherwise. The fool would not stop planning. Never! All those seducing  beautiful features, painted in flames and framed by the corpses of moths. Junia knew Lucia loved having her as a sister. That Mara and her husband had the power and the influence to allow Junia the life of worship she once sought. But all it took was one more powerful than them to quench all those promises. And there certainly would be a Grand Cleric somewhere, to prevent one such as her to become a knight and a wife.

Yet, even buried in the news of Highever, John planned still. He would still knight her, he would still have her if she would so desire. In the Storm Coast, with his grandfather, who still lived. In loyal Waking Sea, under the famous bann Alfstanna Eremon.

John had silenced his thanks for a long time, and the rain never strengthened to more than drizzle. The sea spray was doing more to wet them than the faint droplets that blended the sea and sky in a homogenous gray, except for the crackling sparkles in the horizon. Junia should be dry, under the earth, on her way to Orzammar. But here she was, with a kind, fool of a human, who…

Junia looked up once again, and her silent eyes, aided by a faint smile on her broad, full lips, quickly brought John’s gaze to hers. “I love you, John.”

\---

The sparking corner of the horizon was now all around them, and pouring rain made the night’s sleep troubled at best. John and Junia slept together on a corner of the deck, under a flapping tent, hugged as much as their gear allowed under a blanket. Most of the crew was awake, helping juggle the vessel amid the broad waves. Had the storm not started early in the previous evening, Junia would also be awake. But she had been rocked, literally, to sleep. John, on his end, had been eased into sleep by the murky water of his feelings. The despair of his family’s death would not mix with the happiness of Junia’s confession, and these two rivers would swirl and drag around each other, but would not become one thing. Yet for the first time ever since he had met this marvelous woman, she embarked on his plans and ideas for the future, and she held his hand to move beyond the point of vengeance. There were many scenarios, and all moved past this storm towards brighter blues in the sky. Vengeance would be sweeter seasoned by love. And grief was certainly more bearable cushioned by it.

The skipper approached the couple, and shook John’s shoulder. They both were sleeping under the tent that covered the bow of the fat cog, but there was no actual separation from that area to the rest of the deck. John opened tired eyes at the small, tanned, bald man with an ugly tattoo under his right eye. Just like everyone aboard, he was soaked. John and Junia were just less wet for the time being. Junia opened her eyes as well, wishing John’s arm around her had less steel. “We’ll anchor for a while, m’lord”, said the man in an awful Fereldan. “There’s battle ahead.”

Thunder clasped and John hazily got up on his feet, as fast as he could, tumbling against the ship’s railing as a tall, fat wave wobbled the vessel. He leaned over the railing at the bow, holding the taut bowsprit for balance and, after registering the scene, he let out a loud cry of joy. “Yes!!! Junia! Junia, come see this!”

Junia thought her mind was playing tricks on her, since the sound of creaking wood projected itself above the roaring waves, the wind, and the gnarling thunder. It was something she was not used to see, and not quite understood, but John was beaming at the scene: a few hundred yards ahead of them, an enormous warship was cresting a giant wave. This vessel was at least four times as long as the cog that was carrying them, and it seemed like the ocean itself was straining to lift it to the top of the wave. Junia could not count how many oars it had - all of them retracted - but there were certainly hundreds! As this ship reached the peak of the surge, its ram projected out of the water. On each side of the ram, two angry, godly eyes were painted, giving the vessel the qualities of a sea monstrosity.

And that monstrosity, propelled by gale force winds stuffing the two triangular sails, was now riding the other side of the wave, skidding down and slicing the surf on its way to find the flank of what seemed to Junia the unluckiest ship in the world. A smaller version of the monster, with a single sail and a double row of oars. Its belly was exposed to the charge of the larger vessel, fuming down the seafoam. “They are going to collide!” Junia shouted.

“The Storm Giant will ram that dromon!” John replied in an almost frenzied bliss. “That’s my grandfather’s ship, love! Ram her in, grandpa!”

The Storm Giant did not have the Cousland’s laurel on its white sails. They soared instead from the top of the masts, two light green pennants tensioned taut by the raging winds, pointing towards the distraught dromon. The wind was at the trireme’s back, and at the dromon, the Amaranthine bear seemed to try to flee from the oncoming assault. Dozens of crossbowmen would lose, cock, reload and lose again in the direction of the Storm Giant, their volleys doing little to stop the charge down the water mountain.

It was as if that dromon had not been there. Wood crackled like lightning, and the Storm Giant’s ram folded the dromon over itself, projecting the crossbowmen unto the troubled waters. John’s shouts of victory joined the ones of the sailors of the trireme, but the sailors of their cog were very scared. Junia was hugged, kissed and hugged again by her man, who was almost climbing on the railing, and kept urging the skipper to bring the cog closer so they could join the fray. In all honesty, Junia was terrified. She had been watching it all with widened eyes, still not believing how easy it was to simply fall and sink to the bottom of the ocean. All around those two ships that now seemed to be locked, dozens other vessels - galleys, cogs, dromons - were scattered and being shook here and there by an angry sea. Why were they fighting in the middle of a storm?

“Mistress Junia”, shouted the skipper, over the storm’s roaring. “I will bring you to that galley over there. But I will then return to _Chiesaforte_. My mission is complete, yes?”

Junia wanted to call the man crazy for even thinking of approaching the most dangerous situation she had seen in all her life. But when looking at John, she received the full weight of his eyes, the slap of the highest glimmer of hope she had seen in them ever since they left Kirkwall. His family was fighting back. John, on his side, could see Junia’s hesitance, and of course, he understood a sea battle was terrifying to anyone who had not been raised at the Storm Coast aboard the Storm Giant, the very trireme galley that was now detangling itself from the rammed dromon due to a fortuitous wave forming right underneath them.

“No,” he said, looking at Junia with a kind smile, and then at the skipper. “You will bring me to the Storm Giant, but you will anchor around with Junia. Once the battle is over, I will come for her.”

“Fuck that, John,” interrupted Junia, looking way braver than she was actually feeling. A skill she developed in her first days in the Carta, and one she hadn’t had to resort to in a long time. “I will fight with you.” At the first signs of protest coming from the human, she pushed on: “Is that how you intend on us to go ahead? I will be your knight, but you will sidetrack me, and leave me damseling while you fight?”

John wanted to insist, but she was right. She had proved herself more than once. He could point that Junia never fought at sea, but the resolution in her eyes was fierce, those angry, beautiful dark eyes. John took a deep breath and held Junia’s face with both his hands, laying a long, worried kiss on her soft lips. Junia welcomed this new emotions. She was indeed terrified. But she was ecstatic. Fighting without the need to justify the Maker’s will to herself felt really good. And fueled by love? She could face the pouring rain and thunder.

The skipper simply nodded, ordered his sailors to keep close control on the sail, and the others to waive any piece of white cloth they could find. They did not want to get rammed or have arrows and bolts join the rain. Slowly, thrown from a side to the other like a dog’s ragdoll, the Marcher cog approached the Storm Giant. The galley actually had its broadside exposed to the approaching fat vessel, but the slow speed and the waving of white cloths kept the arrows knocked in the bows of dozens of longbowmen, who were ready to reduce every sailor of John and Junia’s ship to pincushions. To her, it was impressive how the sailors in both vessels, John included, would barely rock with the ships going up and down all the times, adjusting their weight in unison with the waves.

The skipper manoeuvred the cog to be parallel to the galley, and both ships rocked each other, as the waters were far from gentle. In the taller Storm Giant, the longbowmen kept their careful aim on the people below, although some started relaxing their stances when they recognized the man who was waving his arm and asking them to lower a ladder. Before the ladder was unfurled, though, the skipper of the Storm Giant approached the edge, and crossed her arms.

John was not expecting her to be the skipper. Junia could see the confusion, and for a moment feared the worst, reading herself for all those arrows to be loosed. She actually closed her eyes, and leaned against John. There would be no escaping them. “Andraste’s knicker weasels, someone punch me and call me a liar! John Cousland! John fucking Cousland!”

Bann Alfstanna Eremon carried the storm in her smile, a woman of simple features, and ample bravery in the small green eyes. Junia could see little of her, looking from down below the cog’s deck. The lifted helmet visor allowed the dwarf to see a chiseled chin, and a pointy nose, broken to the right, just like Junia’s. The lips were thin and small, and more than anything, triumphant. She was geared in full armor, a shiny hauberk complete with pauldrons, gauntlet and cuirass, the white and blue tabard flowing with the wind. “Roll down the fucking goddamn ladder already! We’ve got no time to lose,” shouted the bann.

John and Junia made it onto the Storm Giant as well as did two sailors from the cog, lured by the promise of plunder in the ongoing battle. Bann Alfstanna welcomed the aid and sent them down to rowing decks, where they could use more people. “I thought you were dead as sure as lives the Maker, my friend. And where the fuck is your beard?”

John giggled, and made it to the prow following the broad steps of the armored woman. Junia was right next to him, utterly amazed at the organized mess of ropes, pulleys, spray, longbowmen, men-at-arms and deckhands, all balancing themselves in the evergoing earthquake beneath their feet. There were easily over fifty people on top of the deck, and easily hundreds more below, ready to row.

“I would be dead if it wasn’t for her. This is Junia Cadash, my lady. She saved my life many times over.” And turning to Junia, soaking his voice with a tenderness that that been buried in the battle frenzy ever since they sighted the Storm Giant, he said “And this is bann Alfstanna Eremon of Waking Sea, my love. A good friend of my family.”

Before Junia could reply to the introduction, Alfstanna was aghast and brought the dwarf in a strong hug, complete with breath expelling pats on the back. “My love! If you have his heart, you have my friendship, dwarf!” Junia was being shaken by the sea and by the other woman, but when she was brought closer, she felt a weird shape in the human’s cuirass. When they backed away, Junia had her brows furrowed looking at Alfstanna’s belly, and the latter caught it easily.

“Oh, this?”, she said, moving the tabard to the side and revealing improvising padding added to the cuirass in the belly region. “I am a married, pregnant woman, and you can call me grandmother, John. And you too, _Dj_ unia, once you make an honest man out of him. But just a moment now - _Oars! Battle speed!_ ”

That last shout raised above the storm, and soon wood rattled on all sides of the galley. The immense oars projected out of the hull, and soon the rhythmic drums began sounding, followed by the raising and lowering of the oars. The hundreds of oars on each side of the beast.

They had reached the prow, standing between the brows of the sea monster, and Junia was struggling to keep up with everything going around her. She had taken an instant liking to Alfstanna - she looked at the noblewoman as her future self; how she could be if she was a noble, a powerful bann. She didn’t realize that, regardless of dwarves dreaming or not, her own dreams were soaring high, and she was soaking in and being engulfed by the morale of the fighters on that ship. All around the Storm Giant, galleys, dromons and even repurposed cogs - not that Junia knew those names - rode the westerly winds, literally riding the storm to bring the battle to a confused enemy who was battered and scattered. All around them, as far as they could see in the spray and rain, it seemed that the battle was going really well for the Cousland forces, although the enemy seemed to be organizing itself.

But John wanted to know more. Junia was fine with understanding the “grandmother” remark Alfstanna made after they were done with that confusion. But the man would not be satisfied with less than an explanation. “What do you mean? Did you marry grandfather?!” a flabbergasted John asked. “Where is he?!”

Alfstanna, though, was too busy to explain. She had a mark in mind, and she would gladly explain that a later moment: “Yes, John, I married him - he is leading Highever’s army south, to Ostagar. Andraste’s tits, where have you been all this time? Look, look there. Junia, tell your man to pay attention. See? That’s the Kraken, my friend!”

The Kraken was the only other vessel in those waters that resembled the Storm Giant in her sheer size and menace. She had the same demonic eyes painted on each side of her keel, and her hundreds of oars moved in a careful dance that made sure she was staring back at the Storm Giant’s gaze.

“We knew they were coming to get us, John! But the Maker sent this storm flying west, can you believe this? We’ve been sailing the storm and caught the fuckers by surprise, my friend! Look all around you! I’ll have what’s left of Amaranthine’s fleet when this is all over, I’ll fucking rule the sea!” Alfstanna couldn’t contain herself, and with glee and gallantry shouted commands to the sailors. The men-at-arms started using their shields to guard the deck against volleys of bolts coming from a nearby cog. “But their fucking flagship managed to realign itself, John. And those nug-fucking dromons have her flanks! If we don’t take the Kraken down soon, most of these uncle-killer bastard will escape and regroup!”

Indeed, two smaller dromons angled themselves with the Kraken, making it impossible for the Storm Giant to chase her mark without being left significantly vulnerable to a rebuke from the Kraken. John saw that, and shook his head. Even with the high morale, the ships being captured and rammed all around them, his heart started to trickle down from him with the water from the warm rain. The Kraken was Amaranthine’s flagship, and capturing it would mean the end of any coordination from their end in that battle. “So we might as well regroup and end this madness, Alfstanna! We can’t risk it all, we will need these ships to retake Highever! Don’t risk a sure victory, please!”

Junia managed to recompose herself and control her stomach - the drums helped! Their beating and the oars raising and dipping gave her mind the rhythm she needed to keep her insides inside. But John and Alfstanna were on the brink of breaking in an argument, so she got between the two before things escalated. She knew the humans could not see nearly as good as her. And in the dim light of the storm, she was sure they were not seeing a very important detail.

“You two! Look at that boat --”

“Ship!” Both John and Alfstanna corrected.

“That _boat_ over there! On the left of the other big boat. Our left, I mean. It has just crossbowmen. With the flank exposed to us! We are packed with longbowmen. Go in, rain arrows on the sodders, and ram the thing to Andraste’s bosom! The men-at-arms can shield us from volleys from the big one.”

John and Alfstanna remained in silence for a while, as thunder crackled and Junia looked at at them. All were soaked to the bone, but John found in himself to admire the wet dwarf before the next thunder came from Alfstanna. “Where did you find this dwarf, John?!” The bann hugged Junia and pressed a tight kiss to the top of her head. “You, friend, you are an absolute woman! She is right, we can do as she says and adapt from there.”

John could see Alfstanna’s cuirass raise an instant before she could bellow the command - he raised a hand. “No, wait, I have an idea. I will need a cog with one of the high castles, and a shitload of bowmen!” As he continued his explanation, his eyes and smile kept washing over Junia, who once again had gathered his spirit whole. His voice and gesticulating rose with excitement, and soon Alfstanna and Junia were shouting agreement. In a few minutes, all were ready to move.

The Selkie was the cog Alfstanna ordered to be brought to John. She was already crewed mostly by longbowman, as a crossbowmen was a rarity in Waking Sea and Storm Coast vessels. While Crossbowmen were easy to deploy and replenish - any fool could shoot one - crossbow themselves were very expensive. The poorer bannorns of the Fereldan coast, though, could easily supply the cheap longbows, and had plenty of bodies, archers trained since childhood, to draw from their traditionally seafaring people.

“Now, you go around the Kraken, and expose your flank, Alf. Trust me, this will work,” said John, already aboard the Selkie.

“Of course it will, John! Fuck if it won’t!”

“Maker preserve us!”, John bellowed, and rose his sword high above his head, shouting as loud as he could. “Revenge belongs to the Maker!”

“To the Maker!” the sailors, Junia included, shouted back.

“Full sail!”, he commanded, running towards the bow, where he would control the steering oar for the time being. And while running on next to him, and actually reaching for his support as the ship was rocked by a wave, Junia realized she had misjudged John. She could still see the naive man who knew nothing of death, who had led a life easy enough to learn how to respect her as woman and earn her heart. Back when escaping the monastery, she had seen the warrior, shouting beautiful things and killing thugs with little remorse and vying for glory. But the man who now held the steering oar had hate in his eyes. He looked fixedly ahead, shouting whatever orders with weird boat terms were needed. The only breaks in that killing countenance were the kind, loving looks he would divert to her direction eventually. And other than her stomach’s protests, Junia had somehow settled to the situation. She knew the Maker had closed her body, and every single sign in the past weeks pointed that He wanted her there. Even John’s family murder. The Maker wanted Junia in the Selkie, and nothing could happen to her.

The Selkie, as a cog, was a fat, bulgy vessel, but her prow and bow had castles - square wooden platforms resembling battlements, that were almost as tall as the Storm Giant and the Kraken - and definitely taller than a dromon. John didn’t need to maneuver too much. He led the Selkie through the troubled waters to within volley distance of the dromon guarding the Kraken’s flank - the one Junia had pointed out, having only crossbowmen as ranged units. The escort ship actually sent the first volley, but while their crossbowmen reloaded, the longbowmen of the Selkie started raining unrelenting death. Junia shouted and punched the air in celebration when she saw that, as expected, the escort ship started pivoting, aligning herself with the Selkie’s broadside.

Behind them, the drums of the Storm Giant could be heard, giving music to the storm’s thunder. The Selkie protected the Giant’s flank as she circled with all oars and sails to the other side of the Kraken.

“Keep at it!” Junia shouted, to John’s pleasure. The longbowman gave no reprieve to their deadly rain. The crossbowmen of the other vessel were not able to safely cock their weapons again for a renewed volley. Crossbows were over encumbering weapons, five feet long, and needing to be supported on steady ground and cocked with a foot. An impressive feat to be carried in a storm, under a barrage of arrows. These arrows rained from the Selkie with the storm, and it didn’t take long for the escort ship to decide to punish her for it. Her dozens of oars dipped, and at ramming speed, the drumming commanded them beat as fast as hearts.

“Steady…” John bellowed. “Steady…” he nodded at Junia, and she signaled to the men-at-arms hiding in the hull to come above to the deck. She was surprised when John held her face with both his hands and kissed her lips fiercely, the intense kiss of those about to dive into danger. The dwarf had never boarded another ship in her life before, but with her closed body and staying behind the men-at-arms shields, she knew she would be deadly.

But she fell and rolled down the deck, to be helped by one of the men-at-arms who knew what was coming: the dry sound of dozens of whips of lightning, creaking and crackling. The escort ship rammed the Selkie and Junia did not imagine it would feel worse than an earthquake. Most of the Selkie’s sailors had actually crouched. John had told her about it, but in the excitement, she forgot. The shockwave seemed to move back and forth, or maybe those were just the waves, but soon all were back at their feet and the men-at-arms started forming a line next to and with John, their round shields positioned in a defensive row about to burst.

“Charge!!! For revenge!!! Vengeance!!!” John and the men-at-arms poured at the escort ship’s deck, and the melee began. He was at the centre and at the first line of the attackers, his small eyes wide in a frenzy still to be told in the current tales, who only spoke of bravery and glory. No. John roared like a madman, enraging himself with each blow and strike. His sword was actually in his scabbard, and he was brandishing a battle axe, just like his fellow men-at-arms. In such close quarters, the sword wouldn’t have the space it needed to swing and dance. John and the men-at-arms would use the axe to hook shields and mail, to do precise, swift and short thrusts with its piked end. In that setting, Junia didn’t know exactly what to do, as John and the men-at-arms were keeping a concise line advancing through the deck, even with the rocking from the sea. She moved to the edge of the line, on the right hand side, and decide to harass their flank the best she could.

It seemed like they were pushing well, with neither side losing arrows not bolts as the fray was too close together to target foe and not friend. The Amaranthine line broke, and the Selkie’s men-at-arms pursued, undoing the shield line they were keeping. Junia, who had not been engaged with an enemy, was the first to pour through, and find all the enemy crossbowmen lined up for a counter volley that would certainly ravage a disorganized line.

“John!!!” She shouted at the same time she slid down on her hips to avoid the bolts “Shields, shields!!!”

John seemed to snap from his frenzy for a moment, and braced himself behind his shield as much as he could. “Hold! Hold!!! Shield wall!!!”

But it was too late, and the the crossbowmen loosed their volley, missing Junia, but taking much of the men-at-arms of the Selkie with their defenses down. Almost a third of them fell down, while John felt the sting of a bolt diving deep in his thigh and another one bursting the links of the hauberk over his right shoulder. “Archers!!!” he cried. “Now!!!”

With all the crossbowmen reloading, the archers of the Selkie were able to start their precision shots. At their own time, after taking their aim, any person with a crossbow who was found out of cover was put down. And a nimble, swift dwarf would put down those under cover, those too worried about staying there and trying to reload at the same time. John called the men-at-arms onto him, and with a renewed line, they swept the deck of the enemy dromon.

\---

Alfstanna was stomping her feet on the prow of the Storm Giant, and turned with a vicious grin at the sailor at the steering oar. “Fuck me in the ass, you heard me! Portside north!” The man tried to protest and argued that the Kraken now had the wind on her stem and was aligning herself for ramming. That they were the flagship, and if they fell, the battle would be lost. That they were winning, and it was stupid. Alfstanna marched as a fuming bull towards the sailor who refused to follow orders, trespassed him with one quick sword thrust. At the crew’s surprise, she kicked him over the railing, and pointed at the monster looking straight at their broadside, her ram raising above the water as it clashed the high waves, the drums beating high as the Storm Giant’s lay as quiet as her retreated oars. “Archers, I want you losing everything on those bastards, at will! Knights and men-at-arms!” Bann Alfstanna closed her visor, straightened the shield in her arm and moved to the edge of the portside railing. “On me! Shield wall!!!”

The Storm Giant had a broad berth for her archers, protected behind the shield wall Bann Alfstanna and her fighters formed. Yet, the Kraken returned narrower volleys that would only delay the inevitable. “Steady, friends! Hold on!!!” The noise of bows lossing and thudding on the round wooden shields was louder than the storm. Under their feet, the deck shifted, as the oarsmen left their posts and ran to the opposite side of the ship.

She rammed right in. Junia was ecstatic, shouting and ready to board, John next to her growling and beckoning the men-at-arms with a voice more coarse than loud.

The Kraken’s hull rasped against the Storm Giant’s, forcing both galleys to pivot around each other. Rammed and lodged against the Kraken’s flank, the Selkie’s crew were pouring down from it’s high castles, and flooding the Kraken’s deck with a backstab they had not anticipated. Alfstanna raised from behind her shield wall and laughed out loud as she felt the battle frenzy wash over her. “It fucking worked! Hahahahahahaha!!! Take her, men!!! Charge! Charge!!! The Kraken is ours!!!”

The men of the Kraken could not withhold the attacks from two sides. Completely flanked, they fought as they could, but soon enough the deck was overran by the invaders, and the waves were made red with the onslaught that ensued. John and Junia had met Alfstanna, and the three of them made their way through the personal guard of the Kraken’s skipper: Thomas Howe, a beautiful young man with long blonde hair, his father’s beak nose, and desperate green eyes. When seeing that none in his retinue was spared, he dropped to his knees and raised his hands in surrender.

For a moment, John stopped, lowering both his shield and axe, panting heavily, still oblivious to the bolt protruding from his thigh. His eyes locked with Thomas’ for moment, and descended down to the blood soaked axe, dripping red amid the rain drops and the now red seafoam. He felt warm, blood stained hands on his shoulder, and his chest filled with murdering pride as he could hear the crimson waves say, through the fatherly smirk of the Reaper: “not now”. He let out a loud roar and, letting his axe drop and drawing his sword, lunged at Thomas.

“Please! Spare me!” Thomas begged as John tugged his hair back and exposed his throat.

“Have you spared my sister?!” John headbutted Thomas’s nose, and Thomas fell to the deck staining it redder. He moaned a renewed plea, and tried to look up, but found Junia’s boot instead. Alfstanna picked him from the floor and held him by his armpits, her hands meeting behind his neck. She laughed in pleasure as she saw John approach, even though she could not recognize the man behind those frenzied eyes.

“Answer me, you fuck! HAVE YOU SPARED MY NEPHEW?!” John shouted at Thomas’ face, adding droplets of spit to the blood and the rain. And the pounding began. One of after the other, John’s mailed fists fell into Thomas’ face, drawing a shout of joy from the onlooking crew with each blow. Junia, among them, was happy to see John take a morsel of the vengeance he was entitled to. And she admitted to herself, without a single scratch after the battle: she liked the man the Maker had given her. She no longer could call him a tournament knight. He was a warrior, ready to kill in battle, who knew the dirt and not the glory and who would take revenge instead of offering the other cheek. A right man, as the Maker commands. And a man who now needed her, as he was clearly out of his mind.

“John! John, please stop, you will kill him!” intervened Junia, as Thomas’ face seemed to be leaking all over the deck floor. Alfstanna’s laughter still rang loud. John raised his fist for another blow, but Junia held him. “My love, please. If you kill him, he is no good to you. Make him a hostage. Ramson him, or use him as leverage.”

Junia’s voice snapped John out of his frenzied state, and, wide-eyed, looking at the kind love in the dwarf’s large dark eyes, his breath slowed down. Junia continued. “I know that they didn’t give you the same courtesy. But the Maker makes do with no fools, eh? We keep him alive, we will get way more out of his family than by force only.”

John didn’t reply. He simply dove at Junia and dug his face in her neck, sobbing uncontrollably for a few instants. That didn’t go unnoticed by Alfstanna, who, still keeping her grasp on a barely conscious Thomas, smiled in approval. John recomposed himself slowly and laid a soft kiss on Junia’s lips. But he managed to make his coarse voice raise high.

“They did not spare my sister! They did not spare my nephew! They DO NOT deserve the honor of nobleman, and they DO NOT deserve any chivalrous courtesy!” John made a pause, and looked at the men and women all around him, who shouted accordance. “Take down their flag from the mast. And hang HIM there!”

The crew and fighters all rejoiced and celebrated as they ripped the Amaranthine pennants from the main masts of the Kraken. That alone was enough to send a  wave of renewed energy to the other vessels fighting all over those waters. The second escort ship, which was on her way to join the fray, upon seeing that the Kraken had been captured, turned tail and fled. The last blow was dealt to the remainder of the Amaranthine fleet when they saw the shaking, seizuring body of a naked Thomas Howe be hoisted high above the once proud Kraken.

\---

Minutes later, the Selkie had managed to dislodge herself from the Kraken, and Alfstanna was returning to the Storm Giant. John would skipper the damaged Kraken back to the Storm Coast’s shores. He was sitting in a barrel, allowing Junia to work on removing the bolt from his leg. The storm had subdued to a faint downpour. The bann approached them. “That was amazing, John, really, Fearchar’s grandson! That was great!”

John nodded with a kind, tired smile, while Junia observed. At that very moment, she experience a mixture of intense attraction and admiration to the strong woman who commanded fleets. Again, she felt like in a few years, she would _be_ Alfstanna. And the Maker’s plan would be complete. “I thank _you_ , Alf. If you hadn’t taken the opportunity…”

“Nah, nevermind. I will sail to capture a whole fleet any day in the year. But just one thing you might have gotten wrong.” Alfstanna continued when she saw the picked attention of dwarf and human. “Your sister is not dead. You sister survived.”

“What?”

“She is heading down to Ostagar. A Grey Warden named Duncan recruited her as payment for him having saved her life. They left Westridge Keep just as we set sail.”


End file.
